Stars Never Rise
by Dannemund
Summary: SS Jeanne Johnson travels to Far Harbor, intent to investigate the synth refuge, but finds herself on a long trip through memory lane... possibly aided by the Fog. Danse tries his best to keep up with the sketchy woman as he tries to understand his own origins and reconcile his beliefs. (Edit finished.)
1. memory:bar harbor

Note: Okay, so I have edited to fix some missing words and changed repeated words. That one's on me. Not my best work, I apologize.

* * *

"Are you sure that you're alright, Johnson?"

Jeanne opened her eyes and stared up at Danse, fighting the almost unbearable roiling of her stomach. "I'm fine," she said, cheerfully. She'd propped herself up against the wall of the cockpit, in the middle of the boat. Her knuckles had gone white from gripping the edge of the door frame in the cockpit, and her face was probably green from nausea.

She didn't _dare_ tell the man that she was having any problems. It just wouldn't _do._

"You don't appear _fine,"_ Danse said, staring down at her. "You appear sick. Is it the motion of the ship? You've been holding onto the door for dear life, since we left the Commonwealth." He raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look.

"No, no!" Jeanne chattered, waving him off and feeling her fingers start to tingle from the return of blood. "I feel fine. Just have a lot on my mind, is all!"

Danse nodded, turning to watch the shoreline as it moved toward them. She had every assurance that he knew she was lying. He was willing to overlook it as he had so many times before, thank God.

Danse was a good sort. Even if she was sick as a dog, he trusted that she knew what she was doing. She chuckled, to herself. Having him around... was a _blessing,_ really. Didn't have to explain herself, didn't have to make up complicated excuses. Didn't have to explain anything.

The truth was, she really did have a lot on her mind.

Bar Harbor. No, it was called _Far_ Harbor, now. She hadn't been in this part of the world in over two hundred and twenty-five years. It was only luck of the draw that the Nakano girl had come to this place. But it was important that Jeanne investigate the supposed synths that'd lured her away. Important for the Brotherhood, important to...

 _Memory._ If this trip came back to bite her on the behind, she didn't know what she'd do.

Jeanne shot a glance at Danse. After everything that had happened with him―maybe she'd felt his presence would be useful. She was looking for synths. _Set a synth to catch a synth? Eh, either way._ Jeanne stared at the ex-soldier, collecting her thoughts.

Danse was a much better shot than Piper or Nick. And his attitude was more tolerable. Danse didn't pry into her business like Piper had, or sass her at the same _time,_ like Nick.

Jeanne didn't care much for Nick, in the end. His story was―too similar to her own. To much pain and too much heartache. She couldn't bear to help him with that, after everything he'd done for her, because of― _because―_

She rubbed her eyes and stared at a spot on the opposite wall, redirecting her thoughts again. It was getting harder and harder as time went on, for her to stay on topic. The inside of her head was a crowded and complicated place. She worried about that.

Well―she forced herself to think positively. If she lost her head around Danse, he certainly wouldn't go blabbing it all over creation like Piper, and he wouldn't get saucy like Nick. She doubted the strait-laced ex-Brotherhood... _synth,_ would even try to console her. He didn't seem much for socialization, at any rate.

She sighed. Yes, that was why she'd brought him to B―Far Harbor. He was the only person she could rely on not to pry into her business relentlessly.

The place where she'd spent most of her childhood loomed very near to them, now. Jeanne could barely stand the pain. She didn't know that she _would_ stand it, in the end.

Danse wouldn't care. He would focus on Brotherhood issues; on the synth refuge, on the reason why they'd come. He threw himself into his work and he did _not_ notice when his companions were upset until things were... in _dire_ straits.

Jeanne swallowed the bile creeping its way into her throat and closed her eyes again. Seasickness. _Mal de mer,_ her father called it. He'd been lucky enough that he hadn't suffered from it, though her mother had the occasional bout. Whenever they'd gone out―

 _No,_ she told herself. _Don't go down that road again._ It _hurt,_ thinking about the past.

Jeanne'd had absolutely no clue what to do, when she'd―she choked back more vomit, rubbing the back of her head on the wall. When she'd come out of the Vault. Nate had just been... shot, and Shaun was gone, and―she breathed out, carefully, trying to calm herself. She _had_ known what to do. She was lying to herself, now. Had to mind herself, or the lying would get out of control.

So. She went _home._ Seemed stupid at the time. She'd found Codsworth, as impossible as it was. He hadn't been much help. She didn't really care for robots, at any rate. Not since that wretched Miss Nanny, her tutor that she was supposed to call Miss Nou, followed her around as a child, trying to teach her safety and math at the same time.

She laughed a little. Knowing the exact angle at which she would fall from a cliff would've never benefited her, back then. Ironic that she recalled it, now. There were tons of cliffs in Bar―Far Harbor.

 _Merde,_ she had to mind herself. Couldn't let _anything_ show. Even that little thing...

Jeanne opened her eyes a crack and stared out at the area surrounding The Island. This place was as gloomy as she felt on the inside, even if she couldn't show it on the outside. Trees passed them in the fog, ghosts of the wastes wrapped in a cloth of fear. Somehow she felt that made it all the more important to show a smiling face.

That same face she'd given when she'd finally made her way to Cambridge. After finding out the hard way how badly the world had changed. She was halfway there by the time she'd realized she ought to have taken Codsworth's advice.

Another irony. She'd never really paid attention to Miss Nou, either. Jeanne laughed again, but the bitterness seeped out.

She straightened herself out and calmed herself by humming a short tune under her breath. _No, Jeanne, please,_ she pleaded with herself. _Please!_

She couldn't afford for her mask to slip. Had to hide the emotions. It wouldn't do to show _any_ sign of weakness in this world; it would only bring more pain. She controlled the memories.

Her heart stopped aching for a moment. All was as normal. Jeanne smiled to herself, nodding vaguely.

Danse shifted his weight and the boat moved with his motion. Her hand slapped onto the door frame again, and she mentally chastised herself for that.

"We're coming close to our destination," Danse said, glancing at her.

"Good!" she said, giving him a brilliant smile.

The boat glided over the water, through the quiet fog and trees and smaller islands surrounding the big one. Jeanne fought her stomach again, feeling the upset as the boat began to slow.

She turned her head to stare at Danse, the miserable churn in her stomach reminding her she _was_ still on the boat. Danse stood at attention, watching the coastline going past. Never shut off, that one. Had organized patrols for the Minutemen, reasoning that if he could no longer aid the Brotherhood in a direct way, he could at least protect the settlers. She appreciated his good nature, even if he was full of himself.

The Brotherhood would always consider Danse an enemy. She didn't think it was a good idea to tempt fate by travelling with him, but Danse was a loyal man. Put up with all manner of her pretend cheer _and_ helped Minutemen settlements, even after―

After that mess with Elder Maxson, after she'd talked him out of killing Danse. She trusted Danse. Even if he really _was_ a synth. It was hard to find people devoted to their cause, like him.

Jeanne made a face that she wouldn't have dared to, if she'd thought anyone was watching. She clutched at her mouth when the boat finally jarred to a stop. She could hear two people talking on the pier, something about visitors. The air was so dark but for the dimly burning lanterns that, when she stood and turned to look about the pier, she almost thought it was midnight.

She exited the boat before Danse, so glad to have her feet on solid boards again that she almost forgot about the greeting party. Her legs nearly buckled under her, taking the first few steps, but she salvaged her pride and confidently strode forward to the woman and sour-looking man that waited for them.

During their brief conversation, which was interrupted by an alarm raised in the town, Jeanne flew up the steps to the overlook with Danse stomping along behind her dutifully. Whatever new creatures crawled, walked, or scuttled through this place, she was prepared. She always had been, even when she crawled out of that godforsaken Vault.

Jeanne never missed a shot. It was her sole grace in this terrible new world, that she was able to shoot so accurately. Thank God that Nate taught her that much―

She _couldn't_ afford to miss, again.

* * *

This place stank to high heaven. Fetid air, the smell of rotten plant life clinging to everything, churned up by the ever-constant motion of the water; even the stink of fish assailed his nose. He considered it unbearable.

He'd nearly been sick when they made their arrival. The _people_ didn't smell much better than the Harbor; particularly the one called Allen Lee, who hovered around Captain Avery as Johnson spoke to him. It was... very like socks that had not been aired, worn for far too long and soaked in fermented Mutfruit.

Danse was used to military hygiene being lacking, but this smell was just _pathetic._

He didn't care for the man's bad attitude. Danse hadn't seen such hate in a man's eyes since he last spoke to Elder Maxson, when Johnson had managed to save his life.

The thoughts that came into his mind at the association were unbidden, but he let them run their course. It would serve no greater purpose to stem them and hurt himself further. Eventually he would think the matter through, discover why he still lived, or he would actually be killed.

His mind wondered which outcome was _preferable._

The Harbor reminded him of something. The feeling that leached into him was familiar. Lee held much hate for the Children of Atom. The sheer darkness of the place, and the frenzied combat of fighting new monsters... the desperate measures of the people here, to secure their future with whatever means they had.

He felt as if he'd entered the Commonwealth all over again. It was disturbing, the similarity.

When Gladius had begun to scout, they'd traveled through the swampier regions south of Quincy. Far Harbor was foggy, but it was also damn near identical to the southern parts of the Commonwealth. Danse felt uneasy, thinking of the similarity.

He had survived through the continuous attacks, moved on after the near-decimation of his men, and―with Johnson's timely help―had completed their goals. He appreciated that she was amenable to helping the Brotherhood, even after...

Danse watched her face as she spoke with Captain Avery. She was promising to help people. Though he might consider her dishonest at times, he knew that _t_ _his_ promise was no lie. Johnson enjoyed helping others as much as he himself had enjoyed joining the Brotherhood. She had proven that time and again, in the Commonwealth.

And if she had not shown herself to be altruistic, he doubted he would have accepted her decision to spare him. Or that he would continue traveling with the woman, had she asked. Johnson was... difficult for him to understand.

She was not what he would have ordinarily considered useful to a mission; her willing nature had struck him as impressive, made him offer up immediate admission to the Brotherhood. She had _definitely_ proven that she was worth her salt, even through her suspicious―and almost blissfully unaware―methods of persuasion.

He did feel more tolerant of her questionable smiles and need to show that she was not brought down by the terrible things that had happened, than he had before. Since she'd convinced the Elder to spare him, without having any true reason to do so, her strangely sunny attitude was slowly slipping into a more or less neutral one. He felt obligated to accept what felt like a lie.

His patience was wearing, though. It was amazing, her capacity for falsity.

Johnson had spoken softly and with conviction, her words hitting hard but her face never faltering from the facade she'd kept for so long, when she dealt with Maxson. Now that smile was fading more frequently and taking longer to return, each time.

Something heavy was weighing on Johnson's mind, much as it was on his. Danse half suspected she had come north to Far Harbor in order to distance herself from the Commonwealth and Sanctuary Hills. He could not necessarily blame her, though he did wonder at the coincidence.

The call to arms was sudden, but brought up his spirits as he moved along the wall and took position near to Johnson. She aimed her hunting rifle down into the fog, an intense look on her face.

"Can't see anything," she murmured, sweeping from right to left. She was frowning. Danse thought it might be the first time he'd ever seen her frown.

"Stay vigilant," he affirmed, his own rifle aimed and ready. Had to show his willingness.

The monsters came. Through the fog, abominations as tall or taller than a man, creatures walking on two legs like no animal should. "Multiple targets approaching!" he called out, as beams of red pierced the air.

Johnson lined up a shot, taking out one of the abominations. She grumbled something under her breath as she sought another target, her hand trembling on the forestock. Danse was momentarily distracted by this, her apparent weakness.

Johnson _never_ missed. He'd chosen her over so many other wastelanders that he'd run into, because she was spectacular at ammo conservation, because she was a hell of a shot and no ordinary wastelander. After he'd learned her story―that she was frozen for 200 years, that she'd witnessed the death of her husband, that her son was taken―he gladly supported her joining the Brotherhood. She hadn't been shaken, putting on her brave face and going to work, infiltrating the Institute and finding Dr. Li, holding her own on the trip through the Glowing Sea...

He'd seen her take down a Mirelurk Queen, tossing grenades when she'd run out of ammo. She'd attacked a Super Mutant Suicider with a baseball bat and walked away―limping―but unbowed, her face a picture of triumph. Johnson was insanely tough. Even if she put on her cheerful charade, Johnson was fearless and courageous, never backing down from anything.

But _these_ creatures were enough to make her hand unsteady?

It didn't make sense to him.

It wasn't even that much of a threat. Between himself and Johnson, they'd removed all but one of these "gulpers". The other was put down by Allen Lee, who stood and fired into the fog with the same courage that Johnson showed on a regular basis. Danse thought, perhaps, the smell was not as _terrible_ as he'd imagined.

When the gates had opened once more and the Captain moved down into the town proper to speak with the people stuck in the middle of the fray, Danse stopped her.

"Are you sure that you're alright, Johnson?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice free of doubt.

She jumped, surprised at his voice. Danse moved back a step, wondering at that. "I am sorry," he said, feeling somewhat chagrined.

"It's okay, Danse. But, why―" she sounded befuddled and slightly frustrated, yet covered it with the same veneer of pleasantry he'd experienced before. "Why do you keep asking? I told you, I'm fine." She walked away quickly, toward Avery and Lee.

He had not spent so much time in the wastes, not to understand that the simplest solution was often the best one. She'd been seasick the entire time on the boat, even if she'd denied it. That must be what was going on.

Johnson had reacted very much the same when she rode the Vertibird up to the Prydwen. Danse nodded to himself, satisfied. Yes, the idea was sound; it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine she was still reeling from the ailment, upon the wall. Being nauseous was enough to bring the strongest man down; he didn't blame her at all.

He moved up behind her, listening to the end of the conversation between herself and Avery. "I'll see what I can do!" Johnson said, smiling and tilting her head at the Captain.

Danse kept pace as she decided to explore the Harbor.


	2. memory:jack

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

"How much do you want to take us to Acadia?" Jeanne asked the old man, narrowing her eyes at him even though she was smiling.

"Don't want caps. If you really want me to take you, buy me a whiskey and I'll call it even."

She stared at him with the pleasant look on her face for a moment more, before shaking her head. "I think I'll take my chances without a guide."

"Suit yourself," the old man said, relaxing back into his chair and shrugging a shoulder at her.

"Is it wise to refuse, Johnson?" Danse asked, as they were leaving the bar. "The Fog is thick; danger lurks everywhere."

"Don't worry, Danse," she replied, airily. "We'll be fine."

"How will we get there without a guide? It doesn't seem very prudent." His power armor was loud in the hushed atmosphere lurking on the harbor. She'd noticed people looking away quickly as they walked by, or talking in whispers while blatantly staring at them. Gossip. She knew it was nothing to really worry about, but she worried nonetheless. Gossip could ruin someone if left unchecked. They needed to get out into the Island and start helping people, or else the first impression would become permanent.

No manner of good deeds could change the mind of a man who had already persuaded himself he was right. She'd dealt with too many opinionated people to let _that_ happen, again.

"I know where we're going," Jeanne told Danse, as confidently as she could. He shot her a suspicious look, which she ignored.

To be honest, Old Longfellow wasn't particularly impressive. Well... he was _clean,_ and that was something to be said of people in the wastes―very few kept themselves in that state of cleanliness. She'd almost hired him for that, alone.

But he was a grumpy, _alcoholic,_ old man and even if he was worth his salt he would grate her nerves. More than even Nick, with his cutting comments and ability to see right through her. No, she simply couldn't have the old man around.

Jeanne plastered her face with a well-practiced expression and made her way through the harbor, toward the gate. Must get away from the water. Everything she saw in the Harbor brought thoughts to mind, thoughts that she couldn't afford to think.

Coming to Far Harbor stirred up the memories of her childhood. Her brothers, her parents, the visits to Boston to see cousins, playing with local children on the beach...

All of it teetered dangerously on the outskirts of her mind, threatening to barge in and take a starring role.

The Fog was thick, but colored like a fresh snowfall at dawn, the blue light of the moon still shining down from the sky. She could picture the million of tiny sparkles that glistened among the drifts. Here and there a lonely leaf still upon the trees had fallen, landing in the perfectly smooth snow and breaking the illusion that the world was one giant playroom.

Jeanne suddenly remembered building snow forts with her brother Jack, organizing snowball fights with the local children and that time Jack came home with a black eye. That one kid with rocks in his snowballs, and that kid was―

A heart carved into the tree on the bluff― _"J.P. + N.J."―_

Jeanne stopped in place, closed her eyes, and breathed in and out slowly. When she opened them, she resumed moving.

Danse said nothing. Yes, she was glad to have brought him. It was a much more peaceful way to go about things.

Jeanne marched cheerfully off into the Fog.

* * *

"These Trappers appear to be less of a threat than we were led to believe," Danse said, neatly putting down the last enemy. He scanned briefly for more, but knew they had all been eliminated. Better to be safe rather than sorry, he knew.

Johnson nodded, reloading her rifle. "They _do_ seem to be easy pickings," she said, tossing her weapon over her shoulder and gripping the strap. She put her other hand on her hip and screwed up her face, thoughtfully. "I wonder why the people in Far Harbor are afraid of the Fog? It really doesn't seem _that_ terrible. A bit irradiated, but..." Her hand flopped out at their surroundings, a shrug of one shoulder similar to the old guide at the bar.

"I believe the sentiment was that it causes a person to 'go insane'," Danse replied, looking down at her. He frowned at her motion.

"We won't be here long enough to worry about that, now will we?" Johnson flashed him a brilliant smile, and started through the Trapper checkpoint. Danse followed, moving slowly and thinking to himself.

His experience with Johnson was solely based the on missions he'd performed with her. He hadn't really considered himself friends with the woman, but everything she'd done while working for the Brotherhood was respectable. This situation was no different, but it did take both of them out of their primary element. They were further away from the familiar wasteland that they'd experienced before, on alien shores with no allies and no back-up if things were to go sour.

That feeling, when they'd docked at the harbor, was freshened in his mind, once more. This journey north really _was_ the same as when he'd entered the Commonwealth. The whole of it filled him with dread, thinking back again on what had happened to Gladius before taking up position in Cambridge. He let the uneasiness settle itself in his mind and stomach before he dared to continue his internal monologue.

He was able to claim experience with this sort of situation, but Johnson could not. It would not be so unusual to suppose that the strain of unfamiliarity could cause her to react differently, but... she _wasn't_ acting differently. She was acting as flippant as she always had, barring the minor incident of seasickness and shaking hands. The consistency lent credence to her courage, but was somewhat dispiriting. Danse would be alone with her for the majority of this mission, and he recalled the trip through the Glowing Sea.

Specifically, he recalled how aggravated he had been at the time. It wasn't the first time he'd come across a person like Johnson, nor would it be the last time... but he didn't know the full scope of Johnson's persistent whitewashing of emotions. Danse doubted he would enjoy spending a week or two stumbling through the woods with a perpetually cheerful liar, no matter how good her intentions.

If coming to Far Harbor was as disastrous as Gladius scouting the Commonwealth, he did not know that he would be able to tolerate her geniality. This trip was going to last a good deal longer than the one they'd made through the Glowing Sea. He prided himself on his willpower―she was a force of nature, comparatively. Nothing had broken Johnson, even when it ought to have, and he admitted to himself he was partly annoyed, but mostly he was _intimidated._

...Intimidated, by a five-foot-two Asian woman with a cordial disposition and a forever smile. Danse cringed at himself. He hoped that he was overthinking the matter.

"Being able to understand what we may experience is preferable to having no knowledge at all," he said, as he followed her along the broken asphalt.

"Agreed," Johnson said, giving him another smile. "Really, though. The story I heard doesn't pan out, about the Fog."

"The people here don't have access to nearly as much resource as the Brotherhood," Danse pointed out, carefully. "When one sees one's family and friends fall to threat, one becomes... wary."

"Of course. 'Once bitten, twice shy'," she murmured, nodding to herself. "It feels like an urban legend, at this point, though."

"Once we reach this Acadia, I suggest we settle the matter swiftly and be on our way," he added, glancing at the dark trees looming over them through the Fog.

"Mm-hmm!" Johnson said, pointedly. She moved with a skip in her step toward―whatever destination she was heading for, he had no idea. He could only assume that she did know where they were going, possibly utilizing her Pip-Boy to lead the way.

His mind shifted track, thinking about that. Shortly before they'd left the town, she'd acted oddly enough to stir up his curiosity again. He wondered, again, if something was weighing on her mind.

It would be disastrous for their objectives to be waylaid by distraction. This supposed synth refuge up in the mountains here... and the girl, who had been cajoled away from her parents, who were absolutely certain that she was human. Danse worried for anyone who could be swayed in such a fashion, and he was certain the synths would not contain their efforts to one teenager―

He breathed out, noisily, looking down and away with a deeper frown on his face. He, himself, was subject to that prejudice, now. He still hadn't thought the whole of his... _condition,_ through, and the idea that prejudiced thoughts about the synths at Acadia could now be applied to himself, was disturbing. The guilt and shame raked across his mind. He simply could not put his mind to rest on the matter.

 _I must allow for time,_ he reminded himself. It was the same as before; when he'd struggled to grasp what had happened to Cutler, and dealt with his guilt for doing what he had done.

He sighed. He would not be brought down by his own mind. It hadn't happened before, and it would _not_ happen now.

Continuing down the road, he was almost startled when Johnson began humming under her breath. He'd heard her humming the same song on the boat, and many a time before; he shouldn't have been surprised. It was eerie, though, an absentminded song echoing in the air.

He kept his eyes open, vigilant to their surroundings. The whole of this place had him on edge. Johnson's attitude was certainly not _helping._

On their way through the Fog, they ran into several packs of ghouls. Johnson resumed humming after each group was dealt with, her feet moving swiftly and surely over the road.

The road suddenly forked, a booth with an unbarred entry looming in the Fog, to their left. Johnson took two steps towards it, then stopped short. Her humming stopped at the same time, and the sudden silence caused Danse to go on full alert.

Johnson stared into the Fog, past the booth. She blinked, as Danse came up beside her, then squinted with an intense look on her face. "Is that...?" she said, somewhat curiously, then her eyes went wide and she turned to properly face what she was seeing. _"Dieu,"_ she whispered.

"What is it, Johnson?" Danse asked, his own eyes picking up nothing more than the ruins of a building ahead of them on the road and the Fog swirling about them. It should be nearing sunset, now, though he could barely tell the time of day here. The sun never seemed to make it through the Fog.

"Nothing, Danse, nothing at all," Johnson said, as cheerfully as ever, immediately snapping back to the booth and the road that gently sloped upward and into the mountain.

With a parting shot to the west, Danse picked up his feet and followed her further south into the Fog.

* * *

Jeanne scratched her arm absently as they walked along the steep road. She remembered the observatory. She had gone there, once, with Jack. He'd said stars were boring. She hadn't agreed.

Her chest began a familiar ache, spreading out from her lungs. She tried to push the feeling down and away, but―couldn't get the feeling to leave, no matter what―

She blinked rapidly, confused and in pain. Abruptly, she realized she'd been holding her breath. Jeanne let out the air with a rush, and shot a furtive look at Danse. He was too busy scanning the trees for more wolves, and she thanked her good fortune.

She'd been right about this place. The memories were too much to keep penned in. She kept thinking about Jack. It was ridiculous, not being able to control her own thoughts―shameful, she should be better at that by now, she'd been doing it her entire life, up to the point where she'd worn that terribly pleasant smile at Jack's funeral―and everyone had thought she was too shocked, too out of it, to understand―

Jeanne took two quick steps and began jogging up the road, pushing herself to cover the ground much more quickly. She would do what Danse suggested, get this over with, then leave and never look back. Better to forget about it entirely.

Better to forget about the past than live with the pain.

Her chest burned with the exertion. She slowed to a stop, her breath coming harder than she'd expected. Didn't remember climbing the rocks or horsing around on the beach being this much trouble―Jeanne sucked in a short gulp of air and wondered what the bitter taste in the back of her throat was, staring at the cracked asphalt at her feet and fighting the urge to lean onto her knees. Fighting the urge to fall apart.

Maybe it was the Fog making her think like that. Danse was right, of course. The locals here thought that it turned men crazy, forcing them to become Trappers or _worse._ Maybe the Fog was sapping her energy, draining her will so she couldn't fight against her memories.

Seeing the ruined hotel back there had made her feel faint. It had been one of her brother Francis' favorite places on the Island―

She put a hand to her chest and fought to catch her breath, hoping Danse wouldn't close the distance in time to see her weakness. She hadn't thought about Francis since Jack had died―

"Johnson." Jeanne closed her eyes and gulped breaths, waving a hand at him. "Are you having difficulty breathing?" he asked, frowning. The concern in his voice was laced with something like confusion.

"It's the Fog," she said, taking one deep breath and then forcing herself to act normal. "I think it got to me a little, back there. I'm fine."

Cue an even deeper frown and Danse's eyebrows drawing together enough to touch. "It would be foolish to underestimate this place," he said, a gentle but obvious chiding of her earlier behavior.

Jeanne smiled and shook her head. "I don't think I've had to climb a mountain in _years,_ Danse," she said. "It's not surprising. I'm alright now. I'll be fine."

He turned his eyes to the observatory, then back onto her, but the frown wasn't gone. "You've been behaving oddly," he started, cautiously. "Since we were asked to look for the girl, even. Oddly enough to provoke my curiosity."

She rolled her eyes and gestured at the supposed synth refuge, the domed shutters showing through the Fog. "Are we here to find Nakano, or are we going to stay here and chat all day?" she asked, trying to overtly change the subject.

Now _Danse_ was poking at her? Could none of them mind their own business, let alone leave her be? All she wanted was to get this done, go back to the Commonwealth, and finish the business with the Institute. She'd only come north to find the synth refuge for the Brotherhood, and because Nick had pestered her about the case...

Nick's brand of nagging was enough to make her take any job, if it meant she'd get away from him. Jeanne groaned to herself.

"We need to discuss this, Johnson," Danse said firmly, his head tilted to give her a discerning look. "So yes, we will stay here and _chat."_

"Alright," she said, her voice carefully neutral. His tone of voice gave her no other option, really. And if he left her alone out here in the Fog... she suppressed the trembling that wanted to overtake her body.

She couldn't be alone, not out here―not in _this_ place―not _ever―_

"I am concerned that your behavior might jeopardize the mission," Danse said, evenly. "Do you remember the Glowing Sea?"

"Yes?" she asked, mildly confused. "Yes." She pressed herself to sound positive. _Can't lose my mind now, no, that isn't an option, Jeanne―_

Of course she did; Danse had been quiet throughout the entire trip. Once they'd reached Sentinel Site Prescott, fought the waves of ghouls and dealt with the Child of Atom guarding the bombs, he'd finally spoken. Brusquely told her to report back to the Prydwen, that he would safeguard the bombs. She'd wondered at the time why he was in such a bad mood when they'd ensured that Liberty Prime had everything he needed to take down the Institute. Danse should have been happy to see the outcome...

"I'm concerned," Danse said, using the same tone he had back then, "that your record with the Children of Atom will continue in the same negative fashion. It is likely that we will have to deal with them, in our course of action on this Island. Allen Lee, as well as others at the Harbor, mentioned that they are dangerous..."

Jeanne paused, then exhaled, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "Is _that_ what this is about?" she asked, gulping in a breath. Her lungs were burning from all this stop and go breathing, or maybe that was the Fog―

She'd gotten the Child of Atom very riled up, down in Sentinel Site, to the point that he and the Assaultron had opened fire on the both of them. Was that why he'd been so grumpy, back then? She would have never guessed.

"I fail to see how this is amusing," he replied, one bushy eyebrow popping up in mild annoyance.

"It's not, I'm sorry," Jeanne said, collecting herself. "I will try not to make the Children of Atom here mad, Danse. I promise." She shot him a dazzling smile.

"You've been acting strangely since we learned about this place," he added, his eyebrow dropping and forehead creased with concern. "Are you absolutely certain that you're alright, Johnson?"

Jeanne felt her face moving into the smile she always managed to keep, and nodded. "Absolutely," she said. "I am one hundred percent _a-okay,_ Danse."

She said it even though her mind was close to cracking into a million fragments and she knew she wasn't.

Jeanne picked up her feet and began walking again.


	3. memory:drowning

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

"You know, when I first climbed this mountain, above the fog, I thought to myself: Here is a metaphor worth taking in."

Jeanne stared up at the patchwork man that rose and faced her, considering him as he spoke in a calming manner. Her brow drew over her eyes, but her smile stayed; a mildly confused yet friendly one. Her heart was beating fast, still, from the trip through the Fog... but she refused to let her nervousness show.

Absolute openness. There were synths here, and they were certainly operating a refuge. DiMA was not what she'd expected, either. An older synth, his unsettling milky eyes resting on her brown ones as he explained that they had made a life in Acadia. That they wanted nothing more than to live their lives in that total openness, without being pursued.

Jeanne knew that would be something that she could not promise, even before she and Danse had entered the place.

She linked her hands together at her waist, staring at the leader of Acadia in the darkened room. Terminals, blue lights, wires everywhere... DiMA was espousing the synthetic part of his origin rather blatantly, if anything. Where was there room for organics? Synths were not mere _machines,_ she knew this―

"Do you think Kasumi is a synth? The answer changes every part of her world."

"She is human," Jeanne said. She fought the urge to wring her hands together, but felt the rush of words to her throat before she could compose herself. "She has parents that are concerned about her, back in the Commonwealth. If she were a synth, she would have _no_ parents. She would have no memory to tie her to them, at all. She would not have had a grandfather who encouraged her to repair the very radio that led her to you. She _is human,_ DiMA. She does not need to hide here, nor do you need to pretend that she could be a synth."

Danse shuffled his feet behind her. Jeanne couldn't imagine what he was feeling, but she focused herself on the thing they were here to do; namely, remove the girl from this place and report back to the Brotherhood on the existence of the refuge.

It didn't matter what either one of them thought, at this moment. It mattered that the girl was found, and the threat of Acadian synths was assessed. And Jeanne wanted to get off of this island as quickly as possible.

Everything about this place jarred her. She hated it.

"Not hiding. Not pretending to be something else." DiMA made a gesture, opening his arms, as if he was welcoming her into their fold.

An indignant snort came from Jeanne before she could stop herself. "It isn't only synths who hide who they are," she said, feeling the sharp twist of an ironic knife in her gut. "Human beings are perfectly capable of being duplicitous. Keeping her here, in a lie, only makes the situation more painful for Kasumi, in the end."

"True," DiMA said. He stared down at her with his strange eyes. "Though one often has no fear for one's life, when one hides from the truth in such a manner. For synths, hiding is no less easy than living honestly. The mere nature of existence is enough to guarantee death."

Jeanne knew that was true. Danse was a walking example of the hatred people had for synths, at least in the Commonwealth. Strangely enough, their appearance on the island seemed to be less trouble than the activities of the Children of Atom―she wanted to roll her eyes. Danse had nagged at her about the encounter in Sentinel Site, but up until that point she hadn't met a Child of Atom who _hadn't_ shot at her on sight.

The people of the Harbor were divided in that respect, but there was still prejudice. Allen Lee was the most vocal about the Children of Atom. They weren't winning any popularity contests, that was for sure.

By the same logic, people of the Commonwealth treated synths the same way. Because the Institute had made them into boogeymen and forced them to undertake stealth missions―some without even knowledge of their own nature, like Danse. Whether those boogeymen were using technology or religion to make terror, the problem remained the same and the prejudice would not disappear until they did.

That was why the Brotherhood advocated destruction of synths. They could remove the people of the Institute, even destroy the place, but the synths would remain. Even if no more synths could be made, the ones who existed would still represent a threat.

Her eyes flicked to the side, looking at Danse as he stood nearby. She'd saved Danse's life when Maxson came calling for her to execute him, putting herself in the same danger as he had been. She'd done so because Danse was a friend, and because...

If she hadn't saved him it would be one more _memory_ she needed to run away from. The hardest decisions in life were easy to make, when one was selfish. She wouldn't lie to herself about _that._

"We accept all who come here, no matter what they decide that they are. If Kasumi is a synth, would she not want to be among those who understand the danger?" DiMA asked, patiently.

Jeanne shook her head at him. "I'm well acquainted with the difficulties of living as a known synth," she said, looking away from Danse. The ex-Brotherhood Paladin was staring at DiMA with a hateful look on his face that Jeanne hadn't seen before, but hoped not to see again.

She could hardly fault him for feeling that way. The anger, the pain of not knowing who he truly was. She'd give anything to have that feeling, actually. To have all her pain erased and know that she was not who she claimed to be... would be _perfect._

She understood, suddenly, why the Nakano girl had come here.

"Then my next question is a pertinent one. Tell me: Are _you_ a synth?"

 _"Vous êtes regardant le nombril,"_ Jeanne muttered, under her breath. _Just like Father,_ she thought, bitterly. The knife in her gut turned once more, sending a pain through her. Self-assured, overconfident, and utterly _wrong._ She felt ten times better about having come here, to deal with these synths. They were a problem that clearly needed to be dealt with―

"You may choose to think as you wish, about us," DiMA replied, and Jeanne felt her face flush with blood. Monstrous creation, he'd understood her. "It doesn't change my question, nor that you are avoiding it."

Mustering as much of her shaken courage as she could, she said, "I am _human."_

"And what is the first thing you can remember?" he asked her, his eyes burning holes through hers.

Jeanne paused for a moment, her lungs protesting before they'd even been deprived. She forced herself to breathe, but felt the air catching in her throat.

"I am human," she repeated, nearly breathless. "I remember the day the bombs fell, when everything turned into―" her throat constricted. "Into this," she managed. Danse moved slightly closer to her. His eyes turned away from DiMA and onto her, and she could see him frowning out of the corner of her eye.

"No memories before then?" DiMA's irritatingly calm voice filled her head. "Just a single day, and then waking up alone?"

Jeanne laughed, her voice cracking. It was―it was infuriating! Absolutely maddening! Here she was, trying to hide from everything that made her human―she looked down, then closed her eyes against the emotional tide that arose from her heart.

 _No._ Tears prickled at her eyes. If her memory was false, then... everything in her past had been tied very neatly to the Vault, to the real story of the people who were inside of it, to―to Nate, and to _Shaun―_

Jeanne began to shake with anger and something else, something that she didn't want to give purchase in her mind. _Belief?_ She didn't want to believe this jerry-rigged synth in his attempts to convince _her,_ too. He was trying on the same shoe as he had with Kasumi!

 _Merde!_ She refused to believe _any_ of it! Try as she might to run away from her own past, she couldn't think that she was a synth put into the Vault for the sole purpose of―of _what?!_

 _It made no sense!_

"Isn't it funny how a memory can feel like a whole different reality? People, places, even sounds can change. Or someone else has changed them," DiMA said. He really _was_ trying to convince her of this inanity. Jeanne sputtered out a disbelieving laugh.

"Johnson," Danse murmured, from behind her. His voice focused her in the darkness. She opened her eyes, looked up at DiMA and steeled herself.

Willingly rifling the pages of her memory for the first time in hundreds of years, Jeanne settled on the strongest and earliest memory she had to offer.

It was incredibly painful, to _remember._

"I was sitting on the beach in Cromwell Cove with my brother Jack, waiting for my other brother to come and retrieve us for lunch," she said. "Francis was fifteen, and we were five. Jack had gone into the bay, and was looking for... shells, or something, and he went under the water." Jeanne laughed, shaking her head. "I thought he was going to drown. Jack was a strong swimmer. I wasn't. I almost drowned, trying to get to him. And Francis snapped at us for being stupid, because he was the one who got into trouble." She lowered her hands to her sides and clenched them into fists. "How could that memory be faked? It's―too detailed, too specific― _very_ few people have memories of the world before the War―" she felt the frustration in her voice, and snapped her mouth shut, glowering at DiMA.

He was quiet for a long moment, watching her carefully. "There will always be other explanations," he said, slowly.

"I don't doubt it," Jeanne said, bitterly, letting her anger finally show. "And I don't doubt your attempts to persuade _Kasumi_ were successful for the same reason you've shown me." She released her hands from fists, trying to relax.

If this was their intention―to induce weak-minded persons into fleeing for their lives through stealthy manipulation, to convince anyone who would listen that they might be a synth, too―then these synths needed to be removed. They would only convince others of the same, and it was just as wrong as the Institute creating them.

Jeanne felt ashamed she could even be slightly persuaded into believing him. That she could be a synth herself, even though the likelihood of that being true was so ungodly low―she turned slightly to the side, raising an eyebrow at Danse. He was staring at her with his face pinched in, looking confused but also slightly proud.

The expression on his face was so adequately... _Danse,_ she felt her spirits returning to normal. A smile creased her face again as she turned back to DiMA.

"Walk through Acadia," DiMA said. "You will see that we are peaceful."

"Thank you," she answered. "I think that I will. _Someday."_

Jeanne turned on one heel and walked away, her feet hitting the cracked linoleum with loud and angry steps.

* * *

"Johnson," Danse said, following behind her as they left Acadia. She was agitated, a state of being she'd been slowly evincing through their trip to and into the Island itself, and he was more than concerned at this point that her actions would leave them vulnerable.

She'd literally stomped out of the observatory, after losing her composure in the conversation with the ancient synth. Never had he seen her act like _that,_ and as baffled as he was about her personality changes he was also confused as to why she hadn't declared her affiliation with the Brotherhood.

He supposed she could have assumed that DiMA would think, having been accompanied by a person in power armor, that she _was_ Brotherhood. But she hadn't told him explicitly, and now she was leaving without even determining that the Nakano girl was inside Acadia? Her actions made no sense, whatsoever.

"Johnson," he said, louder and more forcibly. She stopped on the stairs outside of the door, abruptly. "What was the purpose of coming here, if we're only going to leave without completing the mission?"

Her hand on the railing twitched, then slipped away to fall at her side. Johnson stood there, not saying a word, with her head bowed and shoulders slumped. When she did speak, it sounded nothing like the woman that he'd thought he knew―at least, that he'd been given to understand she was.

"I don't like it here," she said, in a small voice. "I don't like this place, _at all."_ And she crumpled onto the stairs, her hands over her face and knees propped up on the metal, sobbing into herself.

Much as he didn't understand what was going on, he could at least tell... something had happened in Acadia, something between her and the synth leader. Something he had just seen but not fully heard. Danse moved forward by a few steps, staring down at Johnson.

"I'll admit I have no idea what's going on," he started, as gently as he could manage. "Given my nature and... origins, I think I've been in that state of mind for as long as I've been alive."

Johnson babbled out something he didn't catch, covered with a laugh. "It's not _fair,"_ she said, after a moment. She wiped her face, leaned her elbows on her knees, and put her chin in her palms. "It really isn't. Your memories aren't real. I'd kill for that."

Danse blinked, then made a face of utter confusion. "You aren't making much sense, Johnson," he said, moving closer to her. "Not having knowledge of who one is, isn't a good thing."

She stared out into the distance, her face wet with tears and eyes glossy. "Better than hiding them," she murmured, looking tired.

"Hiding who you are isn't a solution to any problem," Danse said, turning his gaze out to the trees and Fog that lay beyond them. "DiMA is correct in that. Living in the open might invite more danger, but they aren't forced to lose _everything_ of themselves." He pressed his mouth together. Disliked admitting that the synth's ideals were adequate to his mind.

"It's like the Velveteen Rabbit." Johnson sniffed, wiping her face again. She looked down at her knees. "You were a toy. But now you're _Real."_ She coughed out another incredulous laugh.

"I can assure you, I have never been a toy," Danse said, slightly miffed.

Whatever it was about what he'd said, Johnson burst into laughter. She covered her face again and cried, and Danse raised a hand to rub at his eyes. "Johnson, if you are having difficulty with this mission, all you need to do is say so."

"I'm alright," she said, her voice muffled by her hands. "I'm always alright."

"Your persistence in lying to me only makes me _more_ confused." Danse stepped down the stairs, past her, and to the lower level of the ground. He stared up at her with his face drawn into a stern expression.

As tolerant as he was trying to be, he still wanted an explanation. Johnson might be one of the hardest people to get the truth from, but he was not going to let this entire experience―from the boat to the Harbor, to the observatory―make him _flustered._

"I suggest you tell me the truth, Johnson," he said. "Why you've been acting so oddly. Since we began the journey here, you've been acting strangely, and I do _not_ think it's related to the Fog. What happened here?" He looked up at Acadia, then back to her.

Johnson's eyes drifted up to his. Her face split with a smile, one bereft of true emotion. Danse returned the blank gaze with his eyebrows drawn in, a deepening frown on his face.

Her brown eyes were empty as she stared at him, reminding him of... _Cutler._ When they'd agreed to join the Brotherhood together, Cutler had held the same blank face. Whether it was because of the man's nature―when one was raised in the wastes as a scavenger, one tended to have an apathetic approach toward the future―or because of the emotion that he must have felt he couldn't show, at the time, Danse would never know.

The similarity, especially given his recent thoughts, was painful. Johnson reminded him very much of Cutler, he realized. That was probably why he'd been so tolerant of her behavior, he knew. It was unfair of him to give her that leniency, as well; he would not have given Cutler the same benefit.

"Johnson," he said. Speaking freely was something he wasn't particularly good at, but he would try to get his point across. All he could do was hope that she understood what he was about to say.

Her expression was free of all emotion that she might truly hold, a plastic smile drawn over an olive-skinned face still wet with tears. She would absorb, consider, and repart his words. But they would fall short, or so he felt. Try as he might, he was unlikely to win this battle.

That did not mean it wasn't a battle that needed fighting. A rapport with the woman might be damn near impossible, but he would try. He _had_ been her sponsor, after all, and she was grappling with some sort of inner conflict that would only harm them further.

"I can't trust you," he stated. "You lie, constantly. It may not be obvious to some, but I can tell that something has been bothering you since we left the Commonwealth. If you mean to complete this mission, and find the girl, you cannot continue acting like you have."

She blinked again, her mouth still pinned into that aggravating smile. Didn't answer him.

Danse cleared his throat before he continued. He had opened the floor, and struck the first blow, and he would finish the battle.

"This ridiculous― _show,_ that you've put on. It's weighing on you, Johnson. You act as if the world matters not, as if you are walking on a cloud in the sky and not at all in touch with reality." Danse shifted his weight to stare down at her with the full force of his annoyance. "You won't even admit to having seasickness. It was that obvious, and you wouldn't say that you were ill. How can I trust that you will tell the truth if an issue arises? You are putting _both_ of us in danger, by acting like this."

Her face showed no change. He set his jaw. "I do not think I can travel with you, if you continue this absurd charade, Johnson," he said, with finality.

No response, again. Danse kept his eyes on hers, unwavering. Then, a stifled noise. Johnson's eyes brightened with tears, again.

He'd made her cry, where no one else had provoked that response.

 _He'd_ made her cry.

Somehow he felt that was a small victory, even though it made him feel absolutely wretched.


	4. memory:cutler

"Don't you want more for yourself?" he asked, his quiet voice carrying through the open market. "More than just selling junk. More than... whatever this is."

Danse stared at the door leading into Rivet City, from his spot inside the vendor stall within the market. His hand swept out over the market, as he leaned on the post, waiting for customers to show up, waiting for anything at all to happen.

As every day, this day was utterly boring and not worth his time. If Cutler was not here, he would have gone mad in the rusted old tub. As it was, he appreciated the man more than he ever had.

Cutler adjusted the wares for the millionth time that day, considering an alarm clock but discarding it to the side. He stayed silent, not looking up at Danse. A thin bead of sweat built up on the man's forehead, staring at the fan. Danse knew he would be absorbed in the repair work, and probably not notice him talking.

Just as it always had been. Comforting, but not appeasing.

The door to the market had been closed for several hours, now. No one in or out. Danse blinked at the rusted metal, thinking heavy thoughts and trying to settle his mind. Trying to understand why he was so restless. So agitated. He felt―

There was too much to think about, he thought. Too much at stake for him to let this matter drop. The Brotherhood. Their future. No more peddling junk, no more... boring nights.

Since he'd arrived at Rivet City, he'd been restless. Appreciated the company that Cutler brought to him, but couldn't shake the feeling that something better was out there. He'd always been that way. Always looking for something better. Before now―well, before he'd heard the Elder talking, anyway―he'd assumed that was his scavenger nature. Assumed that he would always want the next big thing to pan out into something more stable.

Not that Rivet City wasn't stable. Contrary to the wastes, it was a perfectly respectable way of life. It _was_ boring. He suspected that was the problem, him missing the excitement that scavving had been, but still wanting the security of the shop.

Cutler grunted, slapping a broken fan onto the counter and shaking his head. "I suppose," he answered. "Junk might be boring, but it is food on the table. Why give it up?"

As always, Cutler hit the nail on the head. Danse turned his head away from the door and gave Cutler an eyeful. "You heard what the Elder said. What he was talking about. It was inspiring, wasn't it?"

Cutler smiled and nodded, examining the junk as he turned it over in his heads. "I did. Sounded good."

Danse shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. Cutler was amenable to his ideas, always had been. His agreeable nature was something he'd come to appreciate in their time together.

"Why should we stay here? Rivet City is safe. Because of people like Maxson." Danse stared at the door again. "We could be those people. The Brotherhood. The ones making things safer. Why not us?"

"Because we'd get shot at?" Cutler shot him a sharp glance. A smile tugged at his face. "I've pulled enough bullets out of your behind, Danse. It's not _that_ much fun."

"Coward's talk," Danse pointed out. "I know you, and you know me. It's insulting to think we're not willing to fight."

"It is." Cutler turned the junk over in his hands for a moment without talking. "...Suppose it would be as before," he mentioned, referring to their life before Rivet City.

That had not been entirely pleasant. Danse remembered the sleepless nights and the rumbling of his stomach, strained interaction with other wastelanders and the threat of being eaten alive by Super Mutants or ferals. Times past that had proven to him that being in Rivet City was worth the tediousness of a boring life.

But something still niggled at him. Still made him long for more.

"No," he said, thoughtfully. "We'd have food, shelter, protection. Others like us. People who would value our skills. Something we could take pride in. I think it would be worth that, if we really wanted it."

Cutler coughed, not answering. Danse's eyes swept over Rivet City's market. Joining the Brotherhood would mean saying goodbye to this place. He was almost sure, at this point, that he would not miss the place. He certainly wouldn't miss the gossip.

"Cutler," he said, quietly. "Don't you want to be part of something bigger?" Cutler made a noise. Danse moved his eyes to the door, putting his words into order. "Something like the Brotherhood... doing our duty to these folks. Protecting them. They've protected us."

There was silence for such a long time that he'd nearly given up. Finally Cutler spoke, surprising him. "Alright, Danse."

"You'd join up?" Brown eyes swept over the empty black of Cutler's, piercing through each other. "With me?"

"Yeah," Cutler said, and left it at that. Danse watched him for a moment. "Like you said," he added, after the silence had painted onto the marketplace once more. He looked up at Danse with a smile.

"Why _not_ us?"

* * *

At the end of the day, he felt the tediousness pressing in on him. Since he'd heard that speech made by Elder Maxson... His time had been spent divided between thinking on what was stable, this life in Rivet City, and the idea of hope that he'd felt when Maxson spoke.

While he continued the work in the market and kept an eye on the merchandise, letting Cutler repair what he could of the myriad of junk that passed their counter, his mind wandered into corners that were filled with dreams. Aspirations. The future was endless, if they were to join up. It would only stagnate in this dreary tub.

He wanted something better. Something that he could do with himself. Hadn't had that feeling, before. He and Cutler had wandered the wastes for year upon year, each alone to themselves, with nothing to their names. Here he was, standing day after day in the market and watching his life slip by him. Here he was, wanting more, but unsure how to lay claim to that. How to make his mark on the world.

The Elder's words had been made after a reclamation of D.C. territory, stamping out the Super Mutants that constantly threatened Rivet City. The threat would be ever-present, if recruits were not to be had.

Why not them? Cutler had gone with him, watched the man talking, and said nothing. Danse's heart had caught the words and those words festered silently inside him. This was their chance. This was their only chance, he'd thought.

It was a little surprising, that Cutler had been reluctant to talk about the issue. They'd had a very boring existence in Rivet City. Danse didn't rely on the man to shut down his outrageous ideas―those ideas had gotten them the junk shop, and a place in the tub.

The excitement, the the longing for something more derring-do, his ambition playing off the amicable personality of his fellow. Cutler had always been better safe than sorry, but would agree to almost anything.

When Cutler agreed to join up, it wasn't surprising. Actually, he was more surprised that Cutler had been thinking about a change, himself. After living in Rivet City for as long as they had, he was as bored as Danse was. The revelation was striking, from the easy-going man.

After careful thought on the matter, Danse was satisfied that joining the Brotherhood would satiate both his need for excitement and Cutler's own desire for a stable existence. Service to the Brotherhood guaranteed their well-being, if not their physical health. They would truly be brothers under the same banner, if they joined.

They were brothers. Even if blood separated them, they'd stayed together through the training, through the fire and blood of their first missions. They'd fought boldly, and they'd made the D.C. area safer, all because of Danse's hare-brained idea that joining the Brotherhood would be fruitful.

As he advanced, he knew this was something he could not place any value upon. Unlike any individual life, the safety that military action brought to the wastes was worthwhile. They had a place to be, something to do, a plan for the future.

It was perfect. Everything he'd _ever_ wanted.

Cutler moved forward in ranks to a place that he could not. Special operations. It brought a smile to his face; a measure of pride for his friend, his brother. He felt justified in asking him to join, for that alone.

Cutler had made connections. He was apt enough to earn respect from the Elder himself, and by extension, Danse was also. Being able to speak on a personal level with Elder Maxson made Danse's heart swell in his chest.

The pride. That was his damnation. After everything, his inclusion in the Brotherhood even though he'd been raised an ordinary wastelander, after his befriending Cutler and encouraging him to make something of himself, after knowing that he would do great things within the Brotherhood―

And here Danse, a simple soldier, who made his own strides under Paladin Krieg, earned his own squad... he had every right to think himself unfaltering.

His faith in himself and his fellows was absolute.

It came crashing down in a way he'd never expected. Danse hadn't felt that much pain, before that day. He blamed himself for talking Cutler into joining, even though they'd gone their separate ways in the Brotherhood. The faith that Cutler had placed in him was not deserved. He had failed his friend. His brother.

Cutler went missing on a spec ops mission. Danse felt the sinking of his heart in his chest at knowing his brother was gone, but hoped he had not been lost to the enemy. The carefully crafted pride he'd fostered had broken, and he'd begged of Arthur for the chance to prove himself. A chance to make things right, though he knew his place was not to ask such of the Elder―

Nor was it his place to be so familiar with Elder Maxson. He'd thought the feeling was strong enough to explain his behavior. Cutler had called him Arthur, and they had fought beside one another for many years.

Danse's words, when they left his throat, were those of a man desperate for the knowledge that would make or break him. Arthur's expression had been ever the same, a dour face that understood yet could not yield to the emotion he saw.

Maybe that was why Arthur allowed Danse to track Cutler down. Because he could go where Maxson could not, do what Maxson was not allowed to.

Because Maxson needed that knowledge, _too._

Danse would never forget that moment.

* * *

He jerked out of the memory, standing outside of Acadia. Johnson was dissolving into a puddle of tears on the steps of the observatory and he was the cause of that, he knew. Why he'd suddenly recalled the events that led to his finding Cutler, or as far back as his joining the Brotherhood...

He did not know. Seeing Johnson crying in front of him made him feel as lowly as he had that day, years ago, when he'd had to put Cutler down―

"I'm sorry, Johnson," he said, immediately. "I shouldn't have―"

"You're right," she spat at him. "I'm a liar. I've always been a liar. You can't trust me."

He blinked at her. She had mentioned about memory, to DiMA―and he'd pushed further, and this was the result. If he was gauging this correctly, she was now trying to... push him away, maybe? He wished he were better at social aspects, or at least understood precisely _why_ Johnson was upset.

He didn't fully grasp what the problem was, but having the matter aired was still preferable to allowing her to pretend that she was _alright_ when she very clearly _wasn't._ Danse settled his confusion and forged ahead.

"My intention was to determine why you need to put on this show," he answered, cautiously. "Not to agitate you further. There is obviously something about this place that bothers you. The least I can do is _listen,_ if you have a grievance to air."

Johnson lowered her eyes and stared at her hands, at the black smudges of mud and blood and the ragged fingernails. "You can't really understand," she murmured, slowly picking the grime out from under her nails. "It was... a lifetime ago."

"I don't expect you to pour your heart out to me," Danse stated. "In fact, I've discussed my... shortcomings in that respect, with you. You cannot continue this mission―any mission―if you are crippled by―" He gripped his laser rifle tighter, feeling the stiffness in his fingers, and stared at her. He'd felt the same, but he had the sense to remove himself from action until he was ready to resume. Johnson would benefit from the same.

"We are teammates, aren't we? You _can_ trust me, Johnson. I owe you my life, and that is not a debt that I take lightly." Danse stared her down. "If you need time to come to terms with your past, by all means, do so. I understand."

"I..." she answered, slowly. "I do trust you, Danse. But―" her shoulders shook with leftover emotion. "But―"

"Everyone has a breaking point." Danse shifted his weight. "Everything that went on in your Vault, your attempts to find your son, the knowledge that he was grown and had taken over the Institute, none of that broke you. Until now, you've maintained a smile for even the most horrific events that have happened. That should not be possible, Johnson. If it's caught up with you―"

"I _can't_ break," Johnson interrupted. She dropped her hands to the stairs and pushed herself up, patting herself free of dust. "I can't _afford_ to, Danse."

She looked up at him, face smeared with tears and mud from her dirtied clothes, but the smile wasn't there. He knew that this was how she _should_ look, without the plastic smile―a tired, dirty, and torn woman who had been through Hell.

She'd already broken, but she refused to believe it. Danse didn't know where he found the courage, but he smiled gently at her.

"I berated you for straining our friendship. I told you I didn't like how you were acting. You've reacted defensively. I don't blame you, Johnson." He looked up at Acadia. "Whatever has happened here, I will look the other way _with_ you. But only if you agree to remain truthful with me in the future."

Johnson shifted her weight and fumbled with her hands, looking for a place to put her trembling fingers. "You won't... tell anyone. Say anything. At all."

"You are adequately aware of my private nature, Johnson," Danse answered, trying to sound less mortally wounded and more casually peeved.

She stared at him for a long time, working her hands together like she was tying knots, then nodded. "I... don't deal well with the past," she said, strained, looking to the right and tilting her head down. "I've never dealt well with... anything like this. Forgetting the memories is easier than living with it." She sounded ashamed of herself. She let out a long sigh. "That's why... I'd rather lose them all, like a synth would."

"Memories," Danse told her, his voice low, "are what makes you, you. Without them... it's incredibly difficult to accept who one _is._ If you are... ' _Real.'_ Do not wish to lose them. To question them. It is not worth killing for, either."

Johnson swallowed, hard. "Never really wanted to be me," she muttered, wiping her nose again. "Found it funny, you know? I grew up happy, but I never knew who I really was." She laughed, sorely. "Like you."

"I'm not sure you under―"

Johnson laughed again, a sharp, angry one, and shook her head. "I was adopted, Danse. My real parents gave me away. I never belonged with any of the people I considered my family." She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. "Francis always made it more than obvious that I was unwanted."

He understood what she meant, now, though he didn't fully understand why she would not find happiness with her new family. That was... what he had forced himself to do, by helping the Minutemen and remaining in the Commonwealth. He'd only stayed because...

Danse sighed. Because of Johnson. She had asked him to stay. He'd never questioned why.

"I always wondered who my real parents were, hoped they would find me... somehow. Don't know when I gave that fantasy up." Shook her head again and shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe I told off Maxson because I thought you'd understand, but I couldn't tell anyone about it. I..."

"Why not?" he asked, watching her intensely. "There's no crime in being adopted."

"Because I can't break, Danse," she replied, her head snapping back up to him and glaring. She appeared angry, but her heart was not into it. She was too tired to fight, he guessed. "If I show weakness, that's when I lose. I've lost today―" she closed her mouth and eyes, looking down with a tortured expression. "And I can't afford to lose anymore. At all. Ever." Johnson crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

Danse nodded, slowly. "I understand," he said, simply.

"Can we please leave, now?" she asked, as if she needed permission.

Danse gestured to the road, casually. He followed as they left Acadia, back down the mountain.


	5. memory:chantons

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

"Fog ghouls," Danse muttered, almost inaudibly.

Jeanne lifted her rifle and peered into the Fog, her mouth turning down for a fraction of a second before rebounding. "I heard someone call them shamblers, once," she said, adjusting the rifle against her shoulder.

"An unfortunate term, but accurate," he replied, head swiveling in the darkness.

"Yes," she concurred, lowering the scope from her eye for a brief moment and blinking away dust. "I don't really see how these are that much different than the Commonwealth kind."

"Perhaps the Fog, being as irradiated as it is, has destroyed their minds that much faster," Danse said, quietly.

"Sounds right." Jeanne took a deep breath. She was grateful that Danse was holding to his word about looking the other way. Her power of ignoring the past was buffeted by the metaphorical and literal waves of Far Harbor, but if Danse could be trusted to keep her secrets... she felt far more comfortable being in his company.

After thoroughly embarrassing herself back at Acadia, she'd stormed down the mountain and through the woods, looking for the place Cassie Dalton had asked her to clear out. She remembered the rough terrain just as well as she had before, as a "rebel" rampaging through the woods and looking for freedom from the "tyrant" Miss Nou.

This place was part of her memories, too; but only because of Nate and Jack―

She blinked away the tears and swallowed hard, raising the scope back to her eye. Had to deal with the ghouls. Was important to gain reputation in the Harbor. To stamp out the gossip that must be brewing in The Last Plank, swirling in the eddies around the weathered wooden piers.

A grimy, withered head raised up out of the murk and she took the shot. Fog ghouls went down as easily as Commonwealth ones. She was not pleased by how simple the job was; difficult battles and problem-solving were how she'd avoided thinking about the past. Easier to ignore her problems if she didn't have time to think about them.

Jeanne kicked herself, as they eradicated the ghouls at the campground. Danse was right about her memories. She couldn't lose them, even if she tried, and she...

She needed to confront the past, if she was going to keep remembering it. She couldn't admit it to his face. Of course she couldn't.

Danse stomped around the tents afterward, keeping watch as she scavenged what they could find. Jeanne hummed in a low tone to herself, opening containers and scooping out the Pre-War items she found within.

"What is that song?" Danse asked her, suddenly. She jumped a little, startled by his closeness. Hadn't been paying attention, she supposed.

Jeanne turned her head to look up at him, her hands on a toolbox stashed inside one of the tents. "What?" she asked, giving him a small confused smile.

"You've been humming it for weeks, now," Danse clarified. "I am curious as to why."

"Oh." She smiled, pleasantly. "It's something I... remember from childhood." He gave her a questioning look as she pushed the toolbox back into the tent, sitting back onto her heels. She stood, rubbing her neck and looking around the campsite.

"Are there words to it?" Danse asked, quietly.

"Yes," she replied, moving away from him toward another tent. She breathed out, closing her eyes as she sank to the ground and opened the flap. "Why do you ask?"

"Merely curious," Danse said, following her. "It's... unique. I don't think I've ever heard anything quite like it."

Jeanne ignored him, focusing on the contents of the tent for a long moment. "Well," she said, finally, standing and patting her hands free of loose dirt. "There's nothing more here for us to gather. Let's head back to the Harbor and see what Cassie Dalton says."

Danse nodded, following her still as she moved away from the camp.

* * *

Johnson stopped on the road to the Harbor, staring out over the water for a few minutes. She pursed her mouth, eyes glassy, as she watched the white waves cresting against the black rocks. Danse moved behind her, surveying the distance.

He had brought up her humming, primarily because he was curious, but for a greater purpose. If she could remember some parts of her past without breaking apart... she must have others, and putting the woman into a more stable frame of mind was preferable.

She was quiet, staring across the water, her hands at her sides and shoulders slumped. "We must watch the Fog," he murmured, glancing at the treeline.

"Of course, Danse," she said, flatly. "I just need to think." She turned to look at him. "The metaphor that DiMA mentioned. It might be important."

Danse shifted his weight, looking down at her. "What was it?" he asked. He had not caught the reference the synth leader made, himself.

"He mentioned climbing the mountain, and that being a metaphor," Johnson said, raising her hand and putting her thumb to her chin.

He could not imagine, himself, what the ancient synth had meant. He also saw no reason why the metaphor should be important, but he reminded himself that Johnson was intelligent enough to understand how to appeal to Maxson's sympathy. That alone indicated she was smarter than he could have ever been, even _if_ he had been programmed―

Danse winced internally. He had thought that his feelings on the matter, of his being a synth, were firm enough to be ignored. He'd hoped, at least temporarily, that he could overlook them, much as Johnson had been.

Of course, that was a foolish assumption. He shouldn't have agreed to overlook her strange behavior, either. She would only... break, again. Which was something they could not afford, at this time.

"I think he meant Rene Daumal," Johnson said, her voice fading away. " 'You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again.' " She rubbed her face, sighing tiredly. "I don't know. It's not what he meant, probably."

Danse watched her face, the smile fading again, and saw her empty eyes spark with some emotion he didn't―couldn't―comprehend. "It doesn't sound quite right," he agreed.

No matter what he thought about the synth's agitation of Johnson, he knew the incident would weigh heavily on her mind. That she was even bothering to speak to him about it was a promising sign. He _should_ seize upon this, and continue the battle to gain rapport with her. Danse took a breath, intent to change the subject, but Johnson interrupted before he could speak.

"No, I don't think it's right either." Johnson shook her head. "Maybe he meant..." she frowned with thought, but quickly reverted to her normal smile. "Oh, I don't even know where to _begin."_

"Why you would concern yourself with what he meant, especially after he upset you so badly, I do not know," he told her, pushing forward his idea. "Holding onto these thoughts _will_ prove problematic, however. We have to confront him, eventually."

"I'm alright," she muttered. Her eyes emptied of emotion, leaving her with a shell of a smile.

"Did we not discuss that you are _not_ alright?" He asked her, sharply. Johnson glanced up at him and then away, and Danse focused on the smear of mud just above her eyebrow. He cleared his throat, fixing her with a chastising look. "Your inability to handle the past has proven a difficulty," he pointed out. "I had similar feelings, when I―" He closed his mouth with a snap. "Regardless of what's going on, there's no value in stopping your thoughts. You reacted rather... _explosively._ We should discuss that, for future interaction."

She made a dismissive noise deep in her throat, refusing to look at him. Danse frowned. "DiMA's words upset you," he suggested, carefully. "We should... you need to speak your mind. Let another shoulder the burden. It is a tried and true way to―" He stopped himself, unsure how to express the sentiment.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Johnson asked, raising an eyebrow as she looked up at him with a funny smile.

"I―" Danse breathed out, glancing away from her face. He felt uncomfortable, giving so much of his private thoughts to the surface.

Truth was, this all felt similar to how he'd treated Haylen, before. Coming to this place dragged up memories that he believed to be true, including the grievous injuries that his men had suffered. The attacks on Gladius had been non-stop, and because of that he'd been forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions that gave him cause to doubt his confidence as a Paladin.

He recalled when Haylen had fallen onto his shoulder and cried, outside of the police station, after he ordered her to end her fellow soldier's suffering. He'd worried that he'd pushed her too hard, had asked too much of her. Her reaction had not sat well with him―he knew his connection with Cutler was to blame for the infirmity.

After Cutler died, he'd worked through the grief slowly, without showing the enormity of how he felt. Brotherhood soldiers were able to attain counselling, should they need it, but Danse had recouped some of his pride by suffering alone. Who could he have spoken to? There were few within the Brotherhood that he'd truly felt a connection to, and even fewer he would trust with the knowledge that he had weaknesses.

He'd taken the hit in silence. His confidence was waning for some time, after that. He felt his resolve had... softened. He'd been humbled, and he felt himself lacking. It only became worse when he'd discovered the truth about himself.

That blow to the heart, actualizing his origin, was enough to break a lesser man in two. He had been trying to work through the reason why, the way how, even the where of his insertion into Gladius. After seeing Johnson's breakdown, however... he understood that he was doing the very same, using missions and helping others as a way to escape a greater understanding of his person. A way to hide from what he should be doing, from his attempts to reconcile his past.

Because he could not trust that his memories of Cutler were true, could not begin to know when he had... replaced, by the Institute. It was easier to delay the understanding by throwing oneself into one's work. Johnson and he were alike in that respect.

He couldn't even hope to think he was the _real_ Danse―

Johnson had called him a toy, made Real. The story she referenced was beyond his knowledge but she must think that he was a replacement, to make that comparison, mustn't she?

That made his chest ache terribly. He could not hope to come to terms with reality unless he made the effort to be more up-front with Johnson. An... arrangement, whereby they might allay each other's problems without judging, would be best.

He was confusing himself, now. Danse shook his head free of the thoughts and tried to focus again.

"I don't normally find these discussions easy to handle," he admitted, turning his attention back to Johnson. She wasn't watching him anymore, her eyes back on the water, a troubled look slowly overtaking her face. "I've been through Hell. Since Gladius arrived in the Commonwealth, since I discovered..." He breathed out, loudly. "Nothing of what has happened was what I would have wanted for myself."

"Yes," Johnson said, her tone of voice indicating she truly understood that feeling.

"And... I am loathe to admit to it, but my confidence has been shaken since I came here. Most of all the admission that I am not who I assumed myself to be." Danse looked above her head at the distance and gritted his teeth. "I no longer have access to the means to alleviate those disturbing thoughts. The only option I have, now... is to disclose them to you."

 _"Oh."_ Johnson seemed to think about the matter for a brief moment, then flashed him a bright smile. "You need someone to talk to?"

"Something like that," he conceded. "I said before that I would look past your indiscretions, with you. Perhaps it would be better to address them head-on. I am willing to... trade concerns, if you wish."

Johnson bubbled up a laugh, watching his face and covering her mouth with a hand. Her face flushed with blood, her eyes suddenly darkened and cast downward. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding apologetic. "I didn't mean to laugh."

"I'm glad my discomfort has brought you some joy," Danse replied, trying to stem the acid in his tone.

Johnson snorted, laughing through her nose, and jammed her eyes shut. "I can't tell if you're trying to be funny... or if you're just grouchy," she admitted, hiding the smile on her face with her hand.

"I think my record for levity stands on it's own," he stated.

"...Grouchy, got it," she said, dropping her hand and looking somber. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Danse."

"You are finally being honest," he told her, "and that is nothing to apologize for." He gave her a look of annoyed approval, causing her to hurriedly turn around and make another snorting laugh.

Danse was still baffled by the woman. Her showing any emotion other than the false cheer was an improvement, though he wasn't particularly happy that she was... teasing him? He wasn't sure. Haylen had acted in the same manner sometimes, toward Rhys. Rhys' cold attitude in response had sobered the Scribe, for a time. She would eventually return to her pleasant affect but Haylen was not a habitual liar, like Johnson.

He mustn't let his own "grouchy" replies cause Johnson to revert to her previous attitude. Danse lifted a hand, hesitating before he patted Johnson on the shoulder and pointed toward the Harbor. "We were heading back to the Dalton woman?" he asked, neutrally.

Johnson jerked her head toward the Harbor, staring into the Fog. She nodded, finally, her face free of any mirth. "Yes, let's," she said, picking up her feet and starting away.

* * *

The Fog Crawler didn't put up as much resistance as the Mirelurks that roamed in packs along the shore. Jeanne kicked one of the many legs the thing had, and laid a hand on her arm where the massive claws had raked through her armor.

Brotherhood of Steel jumpsuits, she knew, were thick cloth and metal ribbing, but this thing had sheared right through it when she got a little too close. She didn't want to look at the wound, as incredibly painful as it was and as much as she knew it needed attention. Blood oozed around her fingers, her hand going slightly numb from the loss.

"Are you injured?" Danse asked, coming up behind her from his position in the trees. He'd maintained his distance, shooting from the darkness of the Fog so that the creature couldn't clamber across the rocks and attack him. It was the standard for their combat; Jeanne would move in closer and make herself a target, and Danse would eliminate the enemy from behind.

"Yes," she said, tightening her hand on her arm. "But it's just a scrape. I'll be..." She stopped herself before she said the word.

Danse's head turned to her, the light on his helmet illuminating her brilliantly. She winced at the brightness and looked away, jamming her eyes shut against it.

He stared at her for a long time, the light not moving away from her. "Okay, fine, I'm not alright," she said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "I think it sliced through the muscle."

Danse moved, finally, gesturing to a nearby rock. Jeanne sat on it, her fingers losing feeling as she bled through the jumpsuit. He procured a stimpak from somewhere on his armor and judiciously applied it to her upper arm, practically stabbing her with the thing.

Jeanne made a pained noise, hissing at the sensation as the stimpak worked to repair some of the damage. She plastered her face with a fake smile to cover the feeling, staring at her hand as the blood began to slow it's escape from her arm.

"Is being honest _that_ hard for you?" Danse said, his voice echoing inside the X-01 helmet.

Her mouth thinned, still curled up the corners. She moved her eyes to her feet and stared at the mud and blood-encrusted heels for a moment. "It is," she muttered, lowly.

Danse paused, then let out a long breath. "I'm sure that you did not intend that to sound as it does," he said, slowly.

"It's... habit," she answered. "I'm sure you know how hard it can be to break a habit."

She peeled her hand away from the coagulating blood and made a face at the sight of her extensor muscle exposed to the air. It stung like mad, against the wetness of the Fog. Her Pip-Boy wasn't registering danger; maybe the Fog had something other than radiation within it's make-up.

"If you expect me to denigrate myself every time we have this conversation, you are sorely mistaken," he replied, his voice agitated.

"What?" she asked, distracted by the odd statement.

Danse cleared his throat. "Every time you have had issues, you've laughed at me," he clarified. "I am not the butt of your joke, Johnson."

Jeanne bit her lip, her eyes wide and face screwed up in hidden laughter at his stuffy nature. He was so easily offended. Touchy. _Grouchy._ For a moment she wondered to herself how his team had put up with him, or if they'd even had a choice. Danse seemed the type to want to be in control, whether it was of himself or of the people around him.

He was certainly acting that way, right now. Trying to pressure her into opening up and stop showing off the insincerity she had, her smiles and reassurances that all was well.

"Of course not, Danse," she said, when she'd recovered enough to trust her voice. She coughed, bringing her bloodied hand up to her face to cover her mouth, and grimaced. "I'm not trying to make fun of you. I promise."

Danse kept his helmet light on her until the wound had finished reparation aided by the stimpak. "Johnson," he said, sounding strained. "I am... I apologize. I shouldn't have assumed you would make light of my situation―"

"Danse," Jeanne said, turning her head toward him without staring at the light. "I didn't mean to laugh. Really." She breathed out, trying to steel herself against her memories.

The light bobbed up and down on the ground. Danse was nodding. Jeanne looked away again, into the Fog and darkness of the Island, and sighed. "I have a history of acting silly when I'm... embarrassed. It's... I can't help it." She closed her eyes, remembering.

"...I laughed at my brother's funeral."


	6. memory:maman

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

She stared out into the Fog for a time, her face downcast and eyes glimmering. To admit that she had been happy, when she should not have been... in her own way, he supposed that she felt guilty. Ashamed of her behavior. She acted so, and he could understand why.

He recalled when they were in the recon bunker, and she confronted him about being a synth. She'd that said his feelings were human. That there was no way his reacting like he had, _didn't_ make him human. It was the same, she'd said, as any human being would react.

He'd wanted to believe her. He'd desperately wanted to believe her, that his condemnation by the Brotherhood had been a mistake, that he was not a synth. He simply did not accept the designation M7-97, and could not bring himself to admit―

Until Maxson had shown, and his confidence in her and himself fell to the wayside. It was all for naught. She'd talked him into accepting that he could and would survive the revelation, and he had immediately lost faith in her words.

Running away. He'd run away when he was discovered. He'd run from the truth of being a synth, and he'd tried to run from her when she saved him. Told her he would leave the Commonwealth―something he didn't wish to do, but felt necessary.

He was a coward. Cutler had known, even back in Rivet City―he felt ashamed of himself, the horrible feeling washing over him and causing him extreme discomfort.

That feeling was why... why he felt the need to press Johnson for openness. To speak his mind, to rid himself of the shame. She was eliciting a response from him that he hadn't thought possible, forcing him to confront his own actions in the past. If those _were_ his own actions. If he could believe―

Was the Danse who'd befriended Cutler, the one who led Gladius into the Commonwealth, the same _synth_ who was confused, now? The same creation that had been unsure how to justify her saving him from death? Was he really the man who had begged of Maxson to track down Cutler? Or was he the monster who had taken that man's place, robbing him of not only the rest of his life, but every fiber of his being?

He feared would never know. And it tore him apart, inside.

Danse pushed the terrible emotions away, staring down at Johnson as she wiped her hand absentmindedly on her leg. She was afraid to _be_ human, to embrace her memories. Where she would have done anything to lose her past, he would have done the same to reclaim his own.

Danse considered her for a moment. Were his feelings, in this moment, equatable to pity or empathy?

...He aimed for the latter. She deserved that much from him.

"I suppose the question to ask would be why you felt embarrassed?" he asked, attempting to sound empathetic.

"That is a _very_ long, boring story," Johnson said, sounding sore. "But it was my mother's fault. Her and her etiquette―" She breathed out, nervously, her words rushing to leave her mouth. "I was made a fool. I couldn't be―I had to smile and laugh. Show everything was okay. I wasn't _allowed_ to be sad, Mother wasn't ever sad―I had to―"

Johnson growled under her breath, and clenched her hand into a fist. She hit her thigh, once, then released her fist and breathed out. _"Ça ne fait rien."_

He watched her for a moment, her words sitting on the surface of his mind. It would, like most matters that he attempted to understand, take some time for them to fully sink in.

"I gave _my_ concern. It's your turn, Danse." She jammed her cheek into her hand, leaning forward and smearing her face with dark globs of drying blood, and stared into the darkness with a strange expression on her face.

Danse blinked, unsure of how to reply. He thought, for a moment, that she was joking again. But her attitude didn't swing back from the shadow that she had just laid on herself. He glanced away, out into the Fog.

"Since I learned who I really am, I've had many questions," he said, slowly. "I do not feel that I will ever know if there _was_ a Paladin Danse. If what I am, has been a synth since... since I can even remember. I don't know if my memories of being a scavenger in D.C. are real, or if I did live in Rivet City―" he stopped himself, a sickening sensation rising in his stomach. "If I was made to replace a real person, with real memories. It's infuriating, to imagine that I was. I―"

Danse closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to make the words work better. "I ran away from the truth, when I first heard. And I ran away from your assertion that I was truly human, in acting like I had. I tried to place faith in your words, but I―I couldn't trust them. I am sorry for acting like a coward, and giving into Maxson's admonition that I must be executed."

Johnson swiveled her head to look at him, an incredulous expression on her face. Danse grimaced behind the helmet, thankful the increasing darkness had necessitated use. "I haven't been able to understand," he said. "Why you would have saved me, when your goals in the Brotherhood were against those of the people who created me. I... I almost wished you had killed me."

Johnson was staring at him. Her could barely see her while wearing the helmet. He was thankful for that, as well. There was no guarantee she would accept that his concerns were worth having. He felt a fool for even having said them aloud.

Johnson spoke, her voice a bullet that ripped through his head in his heightened emotional state. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. She lowered her hand from her face and pushed herself up from the rock she'd been sitting on. "I... I really didn't understand, before. What you meant."

He didn't want to look at her. He'd not expected her to know what he'd meant. Not knowing where she came from wasn't comparable to his knowing, yet having no memory of the place. To his knowing that he was not born but _created._

"I see why you wanted to talk about it," she added, moving across the leaf litter toward him. "I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt yourself, Danse. I don't want you to think that I'm―"

"I doubted you," he interrupted, the anger and acid creeping into his voice. "The only reason I've tolerated your odd behavior, to this point, is due to a combination of obligation and memory. The only memories I can trust are those that can be confirmed by you." He turned his head sharply, staring at her. "You, an admitted _liar."_

Johnson swallowed and nodded, slowly. She looked down at her hands, examining her fingernails. "I deserved that," she said, solemnly.

"I do not know if―" Danse looked away from her again. "If these feelings are being exacerbated by the Fog, even. Nothing can be trusted."

"I don't think it's the Fog," Johnson said, quietly. He glanced at her, saw her jaw working and her face the same tired person that she'd shown before. "I think... that this mission is stressful, and that we are acting out in our own respective ways," she added. She met his eyes, hers full of tears and a slightly alarming amount of distress. "I'm sorry, Danse, I really am. If I ever... if I..."

"I accept your apology," he replied, loosing the awfulness from his voice. "You are taking to heart, my suggestion. I appreciate that you are willing to work with me, instead of pursuing the farce you have been."

"Thank you," Johnson said, her voice barely audible.

"And..." He nodded at her. "I believe I understand why you act as you do, based on what you've said."

She stared off into the trees. "I grew up here," she said, her voice strained. "My brothers and I played in these woods as children. I met... Nate, here." She was fighting emotion in her voice, and looked down at her hands again. "But as soon as I could leave, I did. I married Nate even though I didn't love him, and I left."

"Because of your mother?"

Jeanne shrugged one shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. "Everything I did was a reflection on her," she muttered, sounding bitter.

Danse understood the expectations of others could sometimes be unbearable, or too constricting. Many a recruit had joined during his time in the Brotherhood, and a fraction of that number had not been prepared for the demanding lifestyle. He hadn't expected that Johnson would be of that sort, but learning that she had fled her family home to get away from her mother was... unsettling.

Johnson sighed, turning back to him. "I appreciate you listening to me, Danse."

"And I, you," he replied.

Johnson's eyes moved to his chest. "I know that I seem impossible," she murmured. "Hard to deal with."

He stared down at the top of Johnson's head. "That seems a fair assessment," he said, his heart finally settling itself onto the black sludge of emotion that was taking its time in draining from his chest.

"You know," she said, thoughtfully, looking up at him, "that you come across as critical?"

He hesitated. "I've admitted that my knowledge of social grace is lacking," he reminded her.

"It's fine, Danse." Johnson said, dismissively. "I think we should head back now. I need to... think on some things."

"We are in an extremely open area with unknown hostiles," Danse agreed.

She smiled, nodded, and began to walk away. He followed, aware that their conversation had not gone easily. A strike had been made. Johnson had told him more about herself than the reporter or the detective had been able to elicit, in one sitting. It felt, to him, some progress.

Danse frowned, keeping his eyes to the woods as they left the ruined farm.

* * *

Jeanne peered into the truck interior, staring at the power armor inside. "I really can't believe it," she said, chuckling. "I mean, I'd heard about the _Vim!_ ambassador, but..." She pulled her head away from the trailer, looking back at Danse. "Danse?"

"What do you need?" he asked, glancing at her from the road.

"You think green is _in_ this season?"

Danse didn't reply immediately. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," he said, sounding mildly confused.

Jeanne turned back to the truck, smiling at herself. "It was a joke," she murmured, then cringed. Danse had told her he didn't like being included in her jokes. She turned to apologize, but he'd walked away and was staring at the distance.

 _Pensées, quoi?_ She'd gone and embarrassed herself again. Admitted to him her shame, told him about her past where she hadn't told others. Danse was... surprisingly accepting of the matter. She hoped it would stay at that, but―

Also surprisingly, she felt as if a burden _had_ been lifted from her shoulders. The easy smile she put on felt more... genuine. Funnily enough, she liked it. He _was_ right. Talking about it had helped.

Jeanne pulled herself into the truck, grabbing a fusion core as she approached the power armor. After some finagling, she stepped into the armor and jumped down to the road, lifting her rifle. Power armor always felt so... restricting. If she didn't grab this armor, though, it would sit and rot, or be picked up by someone who would possibly misuse it.

Everything she'd been instructed in, on the Prydwen, told her that wasn't acceptable. Of course, she was still traveling with Danse, which was also unacceptable.

She rolled her head around the top of the armor, and moved to find him. No matter what reason she gave for saving him, no matter what the Brotherhood thought, she felt it was wrong to execute him. As she'd explained to Maxson―even if he was a synth, his actions until his discovery had been fully in the interest of the Brotherhood. Coupled with the declaration that he'd never work against them... Jeanne chuckled. Imagining Danse working against the Brotherhood was _impossible._

Where did he go, anyway? She looked around, a little annoyed at the HUD blocking parts of her vision. "Danse!" she called, frowning. Wasn't like him to vanish.

The familiar sound of his armor approaching sounded from behind her. She spun and nodded at him. He nodded back. "Locked and loaded," he said, sounding pleased.

"I'll take it back to the Harbor," she said, "but I'm not going to wear it again."

"Why not?" Now he sounded slightly disappointed and suspicious.

"Well," she answered, blithely, "I don't really think green is my _color."_ She moved past him, down the road toward the Harbor.

Danse snorted. "That paint job _is_ atrocious," he admitted, stomping along behind her. "...But for the record, you're more than worthy to wear the armor. Be proud."

She snorted back. "I still haven't gotten used to wearing it," she said, lifting her rifle and watching their surroundings. "Don't know how you do it, Danse."

"I've been wearing power armor for so long, I don't remember if―"

Jeanne snapped her head to look at him. Danse had stopped mid-sentence, still moving but curiously quiet. "Everything... alright?" she asked, feeling her heart sinking inside the huge suit.

"No. I'm not very good at this. Speaking freely." He sighed, the sound echoing inside his armor. "I know I said that we could share our issues... but you're going to have to be patient with me."

"Not a problem," she said, facing the road again. "It's not like I'm _going_ anywhere."

"Is that a concern?" he asked. Jeanne's heart sank deeper. "Being left alone, I mean."

"I'd prefer not to answer that question," she shot back, letting her anger show.

"Fair. I've been alone most of my life." Danse stepped on a branch and it snapped loudly, sending a few crows fleeing into the sky. "If I can truly trust my memories to be real." He sounded sour about the matter.

"I don't think you've told me much about yourself. I didn't ask," Jeanne mentioned, moving over a pile of debris. "You are a private person."

"It seems appropriate to _not_ speak," he replied, unpleasantly.

"I thought about what you said, before." She turned slightly, to look at him. "About your memories. About... look, I'm sorry that I called you a toy. That was uncalled for."

"I have no doubt that you spoke truthfully, even if I am unaware of what a Velveteen Rabbit is," he said, turning his helmet to her. "After I examined the nature of you comment, I believe it to be an apt description of myself."

"The Rabbit loved the boy," Jeanne murmured, thinking to herself. "But he so desperately wanted to be Real..." She sighed. "It was still a rotten thing to say. I am sorry."

Danse was quiet for a long time, as they made their way along the road. Finally, he spoke. "What is _Real,_ to the Rabbit?" he asked, his voice pensive.

She was startled for a moment. The book was vague in her mind―even having read it to Sh―she couldn't precisely recall the contents. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes again. She'd read it so many times...

"It... hurts," she said. "Being Real hurts. But when you are Real, you don't mind it very much." Her throat constricted at the end, the words strangled in her mouth.

"Very apt, then," Danse agreed.

"I'm no skin horse," she muttered, thinking about truthfulness. "But that is the truth. Real isn't how you are made. It's... a thing that happens to you. It doesn't happen all at once. You..." she sighed, painfully. "You _become."_

He was quiet again. She choked back the emotion that had risen in her throat. Thinking of the story, of everything that had happened with Danse... and Shaun, _Dieu,_ how could she ever have wanted to forget her memories? She felt so ashamed of herself, so terribly guilty for pushing away everything that had made _her_ Real.

Jeanne stopped on the road, taking a deep breath. Danse moved past her, then abruptly put his feet down and turned to her, his light aimed on her. "To become Real, someone has to love you Really hard," she said, her voice cracking. The tears she'd tried to stem stormed her eyes, blurring her vision and making the light sparkle in their dreary surroundings. Her breath caught in her throat, a half-made sob easing past the tightness and escaping.

Danse made a sharp noise, the sound loud in the eerie silence of the Fog. "I didn't intend to upset you, Johnson," he said, ruefully. "I... merely wanted to understand the reference better."

"It's―it's alright," she said, sucking snot up into her head and forcing down the sobs. If she kept that up, her ribs would be sore in the morning from jarring against the seal of her armor. Another reason she wasn't fond of power armor...

"I feel compelled to ask if this is the same 'alright' as before," Danse remarked, wryly.

Jeanne sputtered a laugh. "N-no," she answered "I think this is different."

"...Is it, at least, a better kind?" he asked, curiously.

She reached up, pulled the helmet from her head and tried to wipe her face with the rubber gloves attached to the suit. All she managed was to smear the mucus around, though. Jeanne gurgled out a thick laugh, dropping her hand to the side. "I'm not sure," she strained out, "but... it's not... it's not as _hard."_

"That is good to know." Danse jerked to the side, his laser rifle tracking motion in the Fog. "Look alive, we've got company."

Jeanne swiftly reattached her helmet, raising her rifle to face whatever was coming. The softly whirring jets of a Mister Handy―a sound that naturally brought to mind her childhood―caught her attention.

"It's a robot," she told Danse. He nodded, keeping watch.

"Ah, you there!" it said, speaking in a familiar, insufferable voice. "Are you that detective I've heard about?"

 _Ah, Dieu, non!_ ―Jeanne's heart finally sank to the very bottom of her chest, hitting her boiling stomach and sizzling with pain. That voice―the one that had tormented her throughout her childhood―

 _"Y-yes,"_ Jeanne stuttered.

"Oh, wonderful! I wasn't sure how I was ever going to find you. I haven't been able to find any of the local police here, the louts!" The Miss Nanny hovered in front of them, now.

Danse made a curious noise, turning to look at her. She fought her stomach, the urge to throw up.

"I don't want to start a panic, but we _may_ have a murder on out hands. Will you help us?"

Jeanne held her breath and counted to ten. She _had_ to. Even if she didn't want to be anywhere near―her father had told her that Miss Nou was re-purposed after she wasn't needed as a tutor.

 _Plus ça change._ She couldn't even believe that the thing was still floating about the world, given a new name but still retaining the mannerisms and voice of―

Her stomach was a stew pot of the most unimaginable horror, as she agreed to help. How could she not...?

Miss Nou had been programmed with her _mother's_ personality.


	7. memory:old jean

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

"Johnson―"

"Don't, Danse, just―" she breathed, pleading with him. _"Don't."_

He closed his mouth, nodding grimly. Johnson looked more stricken now than she had before, as they traveled toward the hotel. Whatever reason she had to agree to help the robot―after seeming to be in distress due to its appearance―he had no idea. He would ask her to explain later, as she wished, but he was not happy to be kept in the dark.

She stepped out of the Vim! power armor, ejecting the fusion core and storing it, before following the robot calling itself Pearl into the hotel. The initial approach was simple; Pearl indicated that some of the hotel "patrons" were being aggressive, and might need to be dealt with. It followed that the patrons were ghouls, and Danse was more than happy to eradicate them.

Johnson was shaken. Her hands hadn't stopped trembling since the robot began to speak. He couldn't fathom why; even the Mister Handy that she sometimes assigned chores to, in Sanctuary Hills, had not evoked this response from her.

She missed one shot, then two, and uttered a swear in the foreign language she often spoke―then backed away from the front line. After dropping behind him, she jammed her rifle during a reload and gave an impressive growl.

An unknown thing, for her to fall back. He was extremely worried about her behavior. It didn't prevent him from doing his duty, sweeping rooms for hostiles and putting down nearly every ghoul that he saw. Johnson held behind him, working to dislodge the stuck breech of her weapon, yelling in frustration when the ghouls mobbed them once more and she was forced to use it as a club.

A loud snapping noise sounded as the rifle impacted the ghoul, the breech returning to its normal position. Johnson turned the rifle, firing it immediately. Danse opened his mouth to warn her, but―

The rifle _shattered,_ sending fragments of wood and metal flying around her head and arms.

Johnson shrieked in surprise and pain. The sound struck him deep in his stomach, though he didn't know _why._

She dropped the wooden pieces in shock, grabbing at her face as droplets of blood flew about and she staggered blindly backward.

He'd seen the same thing happen many a time in combat; a squib in the barrel could cause malfunction, resulting in catastrophe. Danse hurried over the floor and knocked backward a ghoul that had thrown itself at her. "Damn feral scum!" he yelled, firing at the ghouls that hurtled toward them. "Johnson! Where's your secondary?"

She was bent in half, babbling something under her breath, digging into her pack that had been thrown to the side. He heard a loud metal on metal sound―a ringing noise permeated the air―and Johnson came flying past him with a sword in her hands, slicing at the legs of the ferals as she went.

It was a sight to behold when Johnson picked up that sword. Danse had only seen her utilize it a handful of times in combat, usually when she needed stealth or to conserve even more ammo, and knew that she was just as competent with the blade as she was with her rifle. He wished he weren't occupied with the ferals still crawling out of the ruined hotel walls, that he might watch her at work.

Johnson swept through the room like water over stones, parting limbs with ease, dodging attacks and tumbling as if she were equally at home with the sword as she was with her unpleasant smile. Each ghoul that she took down was much easier to kill, body parts lying here and there, a filthy bloody smell filling the air as she danced across the debris.

Danse kicked limbs out of the way as he moved from each to the other, shooting them without thought. Johnson stabbed down into a fog ghoul that was crawling out of a pile of wooden beams, twisting the sword through it's neck with a triumphant laugh. Her right eye was half-closed, her eyebrow oozing blood and torn open by the piece of stock that was stuck into her skin. He pressed the attack, eliminating all threats.

The sight of her face, bloodied with a bruise forming on her forehead as she cut down ferals, reminded him of―

Danse fought the grieving ache in his chest, again.

* * *

"Just tell me I'm still _pretty,"_ Cutler said, lowering the wad of gauze from his face and blinking slowly at Danse.

"Nothing short of a miracle could make you pretty," Danse said, hiding the laughter in his voice. "You look very much like you had, Cutler."

"Damn," Cutler said, chuckling. He touched his forehead gingerly. "Shame of it, though, was that the bastard got close enough to hit me."

"I'm sure it was a fluke," Danse replied, handing him a new roll of gauze. "The abominations got lucky."

Cutler nodded, pressing the gauze to his face, and closed his eyes. "Maybe."

Danse watched him carefully, then hesitated before he spoke. "It _was_ a fluke, Cutler. Even the best soldier gets wounded." Cutler didn't reply, opening his eyes and looking at Danse with a tired look set deep into the blackness. "Elder Maxson didn't escape that Deathclaw without some injury," he added, slowly.

"I heard my name." Danse jumped to attention, facing the Elder as he came into the medical bay. "Why is that?"

"I was assuring Knight Cutler that injury is to be expected in combat," Danse reported, standing straighter.

"Hmph." Maxson stared at him for a long, tense, moment, then nodded. "Give me a moment with the Knight, Paladin."

Danse saluted, and left Cutler to debrief the Elder. When he returned, Cutler was having the wound cleaned by a medic, wincing at the stinging chemicals. "You're right," Cutler said to him. "It's unavoidable."

"Put it behind you," Danse replied. "No need to dwell on it."

Cutler nodded. His eyes still held interminable emptiness within them. "Hey, we match now," he said, pointing to his forehead.

"That we do," Danse told him, smiling and nodding. "That we do, Cutler."

"Ad Victoriam, Danse," Cutler avowed, touching his forehead cautiously.

"Ad Victoriam, brother," Danse repeated.

* * *

He rushed to Johnson's side, grabbing her cheeks with one hand and turning her head to the side in a swift jerk. _"Ow-h-how?!"_ Johnson yelped, her tone part surprise and part pain. "Danse, what are you―"

He plucked the splinter of wood from her eyebrow after examining her head, tossing it aside. The wound wasn't as bad as it appeared; a simple puncture of the skin above her eye and through the brow. The amount of blood obfuscated the slightness of the wound, likely because Johnson had smeared it every which way in her shock of being wounded in such a way.

Danse released her from his grip and stepped back, breathing a little faster. "Johnson―I―" His face flushed with blood as he turned away in embarrassment.

She made a curious noise, but wiped her forehead of blood without looking at him. "Didn't get in my eye," she said, poking at the wound. "Ow- _ow."_ She sighed, walking across the floor to her pack. The sword dipped at her side, dripping irradiated blood as she moved. She rummaged in her pack for a rag to press against her forehead, cleaning it and then the blade before discarding it.

She didn't say a word to him about his forwardness. The memory had caused him a moment of panic and weakness. A memory that―

He _still_ didn't know to be true. Everything in it had provoked feeling from him, even the surprise at Maxson's appearance. But was it... _Real?_ Like the Velveteen Rabbit in Johnson's story, was that memory something he _could_ rely on?

His memories might have been created, transferred from another person. He also might have replaced the man that Danse was, which he felt was―was it likely? He didn't know. But if he wasn't a replacement―he dared to steal a glance at Johnson, watching her as she sheathed the sword and looked through her pack―perhaps his memories could _become._ If he―

If he loved them, really hard, like she had said. Danse felt the shaking of his fingers and tightened his grip on his laser rifle. Could he justify _that_ if he'd replaced the Real Danse? Could he accept that his memories were those of another, yet still embrace them and live his life as if they were Real?

...He didn't think so. He wasn't confident enough to assume that lie, right now. Any number of events in his past could have happened to him or to the other Danse―assuming there _was_ another Danse, and he wasn't sure if there was―

His head ached, just thinking about it. Danse turned, his resolve wavering. "Johnson, I―"

"It's alright, Danse," she interrupted. She glanced up at him, then pulled a .50 caliber rifle from her pack and gave it a once over. "It's only a flesh wound."

"Yes," he agreed, nodding at her. "It was luck of the draw that your rifle exploded."

"Well," she said, pulling back the bolt and slowly loading bullets, "it was good luck that I didn't lose an eye." She chambered a round, then stood and shouldered her pack. "And hey..." She pointed at the wound, still slowly oozing blood. "We match now." She shot him a dazzling smile.

Danse stared at her for far too long before he managed to reply. _"...That we do."_

* * *

Jeanne felt the bubbling in her stomach abate during the firefight. Combat was simple for her: Kill your attackers before they killed you, and never mind the bullets or knives that got in the way. She maintained that she could have cut down horde upon horde of ghouls if not for the limitations of her weapons and armor.

Her face still _hurt,_ though. The pain was dull compared to the renewed clash of acid and emotion bubbling in her stomach. She wished this were not happening. She wished she could have been anywhere but Far Harbor, and she wished that Miss Nou had not been sold to the Cliff's Edge Hotel and re-purposed. She wished―

Jeanne cringed, listening to the constant gabbing of the robot as it floated through the hallways. Every bit as dread-inducing and high-handed as her mother had been―

Miss Nou, renamed Pearl, led the two down to the basement of the building. They fought off a few more feral ghouls, taking the long way around. Jeanne didn't have time to even think about why Danse had acted as he had, when she was wounded. She was too busy trying to remember―remember anything she _could_ about the hotel.

Which was part of the reason she wished this were not happening. She was scraping gently at the wall keeping her memories at bay, hopeful not to loose more than she could handle. She had enough to worry about, _already._

Jeanne closed her eyes and leaned against the elevator wall. The law firm―her father had retired at that point―passed into Francis' hands. Old Jean and Young Jean, the other partners called them, and her brother took over when Old Jean retired. Then there was the fire―

The fire. Burned the whole row of mansions on the hill, leaving her father and Francis without a place to live. _Irreparable damage,_ he'd written, and _frère aîné_ had arranged for them to move to the hotel.

She opened her eyes abruptly. The hotel. Letters from her father were few and far in-between after she'd left home. He'd mentioned that Francis had invested in a hotel on the island, sinking money into what her father had uncharacteristically called a fool's errand.

That was the memory she'd wanted. Jeanne focused on it, pushing everything else out of her head.

She'd heard about the Vault from her father. _Frère aîné_ had been very excitable about it, spending money that the firm didn't have to spend. Jeanne recalled reading the letter and wondering what had happened between the two Jeans, Francis and her father, that caused the rift in admiration.

Francis had never done wrong in her father's eyes. He'd never seen the taunting, the insults. He'd never known a word that Francis said that wasn't glowing. Jeanne felt the sickness in her stomach bubble up and splatter against her ribs, soaking into her and spreading throughout her body. And...

They'd taken Miss Nou with them when they moved. At some point Francis had sold her to the hotel owner... she didn't recall his name. Pearl had mentioned the man, but Jeanne was still―cringing at the sound of―

She shuddered every time the robot spoke. Her mother's awful voice, coming across two hundred years to her ears. And it never stopped―just as she remembered from years ago, Miss Nou prattling on as she tried to tune her out, her mother's intimidating way of hovering over Jeanne when she wasn't around―

 _Dieu,_ would that she could ignore her now. She whimpered inside her head, watching the robot with glittering eyes. It wasn't going to happen.

"Johnson," Danse said, pulling her away from the thoughts. "Status report."

She breathed out, slowly, turning her eyes to him with some effort. "I'm alright," she whispered, as lowly as she could. "It's just a bad dream."

"We are not _dreaming,_ Johnson," Danse replied. He sounded concerned, his eyebrows drawn together and a frown tugging at his face.

"No," she agreed, but left it at that. Danse continued to look worried and made a disagreeable noise in his throat.

The Vault entrance was what she'd expected for the insult her father wrote. _"Amuse bouche d'un endroit,"_ he'd written. "Tiny, but serves the purpose. _Frère aîné_ has determined our future is underground. What can I do, _joli?"_

She missed him―she missed his letters, even though his handwriting had grown shakier and it grew hard to read them―she missed his voice, older and more frail each time she heard it on the phone, but never in person, not after Jack―

Jeanne took everything that she felt and shoved it deep into the molten lava that now occupied her stomach, even if it hurt her to do so, and strode forward into Vault 118 with a spring in her step and wearing her trademark smile.

She was alright. She _was._

* * *

Danse stepped into the Vault, immediately noticing how wide the rooms and hallways were, but also feeling the press of the low ceiling. "I feel like I'm going to break something stomping around in here," he said, removing his helmet. It was lit up better than anywhere else he'd ever been, illuminating the perfect condition of the Vault.

"We won't be here long," Johnson said, her voice cheerful and somewhat... dreamy sounding. Danse shot a look at her, confused as to why she'd reverted back to the plastic smile―

He was certain that it was nothing he had done, this time. It must be that this Vault made her―well, he wouldn't presume to say that Johnson was frightened. She hardly showed a drop of fear taking out the ghouls, not even when she'd been injured. And he knew she was capable of so much more, in combat.

"Johnson," he said, moving to intercept her as she trailed down the hallway with a far-away look on her face. "I don't like what is going on―"

"Danse," she said, stopping and fixing him with a patiently befuddled look, _"don't._ Not right now, _okay?"_ She tilted her head and stared at him, and somewhere in the back of her eyes he saw a glimmer of―panic, maybe, but it showed so faintly that he couldn't trust his own judgement of the situation.

He backed away a few steps, his frown deepening and resolve to work through whatever she was conflicted about growing stronger by the minute.

Never mind that she reminded him of Cutler. Never mind that he and she had not been _friends,_ even in some sense of the term, and never mind that he disliked her inappropriate smiles and her laughing at him. This―pretense of "alright" would stop, the minute he was able to understand and curb it. He swore to himself that he would end the chicanery, if anything to provide himself with peace of _mind._

This was unacceptable behavior for a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel. It was not appropriate before he'd addressed it, and it was even less appropriate now that they both knew she had attempted to rectify it.

And there was more, but he tried not to hear what his inner voice had to say about the matter. Less his personal thoughts, he was simply an ex-Brotherhood soldier who followed their tenets to the letter, when he could. He had no purpose in life other than to... to continue living, even as a synth, which he could not be _allowed_ to do under his beliefs. Why he still bothered, he wasn't sure―no. He did know.

If Johnson could not accept that _she_ was the only reason he'd justified his continued existence in the Commonwealth, and that he was alive, he'd have nothing.

Danse stopped in his tracks for a moment, dumbfounded at his thoughts. Was that really what he had thought? Damnable thoughts, he―must be tired, or maybe it was the headache from earlier catching up with him―

Johnson strode into a dining area, a stage resplendent with velvet curtains facing the tables and chairs around it. A Robobrain lay on the carpet, a red stain on the carpeted floor and cracked brain casing the only sign of "murder". Johnson looked at it for a long time, not speaking, then turned and spoke to another robot, asking for information.

Danse was astounded. Robobrains couldn't bleed―there was nothing _to_ bleed, much less a body to bleed from. This whole situation stank of deceit.

"How grand!" one of the others said. He turned to address it, staring at the swirling biogel within the head casing. "A soldier, here in our Vault. Glad to see the _proper_ authorities are taking interest in this sordid affair." It rolled itself up to him, a pince-nez apparently soldered to it's front and a Pre-War fedora positioned on it's "head". "Francis Pinsonneault, of Pinsonneault, Pinsonneault, and Lucien." It extended a "hand" to him, expectantly.

He was at a loss, for a moment. "The matter will be investigated and closed, shortly," he settled. Looked at the "hand" for a moment, then back to its brain. It spoke in a similar accent to Johnson's, if more pronounced. _How curious._

 _"Good!"_ Pinsonneault chuckled, dryly, lowering its hand. "This detective that Pearl found―is she competent? Military trained?"

Danse opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by Johnson. She floated over the carpet to his side, the strange look still on her face. "Danse, we should talk to the residents..." she started, then focused on the Robobrain.

"As I live and breathe," Pinsonneault said, sounding amazed. _"Est-ce toi?"_

Johnson took a sharp breath. All the color drained from her face and she stopped breathing, staring at the Robobrain.

 _"Jeanne?"_


	8. memory:frère aîné

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

Jeanne stared at the Robobrain in disbelief. Even if she couldn't recognize the pince-nez on the thing's "face" she would have to be brain-damaged to not know the _voice._ A volcano formed in her stomach, rising up to her throat and squeezing, keeping her from speaking. She couldn't move, or make any reaction―

She simply stood there, for what felt like forever, and stared at him. At what he had _done_ to himself. She was astounded by the fact that he was even _alive,_ that he had lived through the War and for as long as she had, trapped in his own hellish Vault and his own terrible circumstance...

She should have been grateful, she thought. No one had ever been so lucky as she was, right now. Even her bad luck―even though she'd lost everything that meant something to her―she was _fortunate_ to be alive, and to know her brother was alive, too, was unbelievable.

But his being alive meant... Jeanne felt her legs turning into jelly under her, dizziness about to overtake her. Everything that he'd said to her as a child suddenly echoed inside her head, insult upon insult over the years built into a hammer that hit hard.

 _"Allez, allez, mademoiselle,"_ Francis said, sounding irritated. "This is not, I think, a very amusing joke. Answer me! Are you, or are you not, Jeanne?"

Jeanne opened and closed her mouth, then shot a look at Danse. He looked absolutely baffled at her expression, raising an eyebrow and lifting his rifle slightly as he leaned backward. She opened her mouth again, staring at Danse, her voice still caught in her chest somewhere. If he saw the terror in her eyes, she couldn't tell; Danse turned back to the Robobrain and gave it a critical look.

"If I am understanding this correctly, you are asking if Johnson is your sister?" he asked, his voice measured.

"Of course, but that―" Francis sputtered a cynical laugh. _"Comment!_ That would be bizarre! To imagine that two family members, out of the many who applied to Vault-Tec, had survived even to _this_ point!" He scoffed, waving a "hand" in the air. "It would be _stupidité absolue_ to assume that could or would happen!"

Jeanne's mouth snapped shut. She began to walk away, her feet hitting the floor with slow and shaking steps, gaining strength as she moved further and further from the Robobrain. She was more than content to let Francis think she was just some person who _looked_ like his sister―it was the _easy_ way out, but she would gladly accept it―

"I would hazard that it _has_ happened," Danse replied, his tone even. "A brother should recognize his family, even if time has passed."

 _Nom de Dieu, Danse. Please, don't. Just let it go!_

"Then where is my brave sister?" Francis' voice became more agitated, arms nearly flailing in the air. "Who left us, _sans souci,_ off to cavort with her idiot husband?"

Jeanne stopped walking, putting her foot both figuratively and literally down. She'd never, in her entire life with Nate, allowed anyone to talk about him like that.

 _Especially_ not Francis.

No matter what she'd felt for Nate, at the beginning or the end of their relationship―she would not stand for Francis condescendingly insulting the man who'd kept her safe from his sour words, who'd enabled her to move away from the family and to live a life she thought she'd _never_ have―

Jeanne turned, marching back over to the robot, and shoved a finger in it's "face". The glass casing clinked against her fingernail as she let loose a string of alien vulgarities that she would have never said in front of _any_ adult, as a child.

...As an adult, she'd only said those words once before. This meeting―with Francis, in plush surroundings and he insulting Nate―was a _repeat_ of that time. Francis always knew how to properly get under her skin... and maybe she was overreacting, but he'd provoked her too many times for her to care. They were a combination _destined_ to come to blows.

Thank god Danse didn't speak French, she thought. He would have turned all the shades of red he was _capable_ of, if he'd known what she'd actually said. She didn't look at him, embarrassed for herself. Her tone would give her away, of course.

Jeanne stood in front of Francis, breathing fast and heavy, her eyes furious. She stared at the wrinkled mass of pink flesh within the dome as her hands shook in anger.

 _"Les défauts des parents se retrouvent chez les enfants,"_ Francis mused, his voice full of conceit. "You _are_ Jeanne."

She didn't answer, trying to calm herself. "You've always been _l'enfant barbare._ Why should I have expected the years would temper you?" Francis chuckled, his tone resigned.

Jeanne's finger curled back, her hand making a fist and raising swiftly above her head―

Danse intervened, placing his arm in front of her and clearing his throat. "No, Johnson," he murmured, his voice quiet but knowing. She looked to him, knowing the expression on her face was not a pleasant one.

She'd hesitated―two hundred twenty years of held anger still rested at the mouth of the volcano, ready to explode and spew molten lava wherever she should want―but that moment of pause was enough to cool the flow and cause her to falter.

Maybe it was... _Danse,_ being there, that made her stop. Her need to stay on his good side waxed full, in this moment. Danse said her honest feelings needed no apology. She hoped that was true. That he would not see her anger at Francis as―as a weakness, or inappropriate, or even something he personally disliked. Right now, she only had him to keep her from losing her fool head over her brother's jabs―

And she couldn't afford to chance that he would abandon her in this Hell. She doubted that he would, but she didn't know him well enough to know for sure. The very thought terrified her, her volcano grumbling but acquiescing.

"Where _is_ Nate, then? This soldier is not him. I could not begin to compare such a fine example of a man to _that_ fool."

She plunged into the volcano, then, burning herself up. The anger drained from her, her hands falling to her sides and trembling. Jeanne's heart cracked under the strain―her eyes stung with fresh tears―

It was moot, she thought, sinking deeper into unsaid grief. Why did she fight him? Why did she _ever_ fight him? She'd never won.

Of course he wouldn't have known what had happened to Nate. She stared at Francis' "eye" for a time, trying to swim in the liquid rock that she'd fallen into, inside of her chest. She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud―

"Nate is no longer with us," Danse said, "unfortunately."

The sharp pang of pain, she felt like someone had squeezed her heart and tried to rip it from her chest. But... he sounded respectful and somber. Jeanne felt renewed admiration for Danse. She shot him a look, gratitude in her eyes along with the many tears she hadn't allowed herself to cry―

Danse glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the Robobrain, his face completely neutral but eyes showing he understood the pain.

She owed him, for this. _Dieu,_ did she ever.

" _C'est dommage..._ I am glad that you at least kept his name, Jeanne. It _suits_ you to be common." Francis sounded smug―she wanted to scream and smash him into pieces, claw out of the lava and lunge at him in her mind, but―

She was still lost in the wave of anguish, unable to bring herself to react. Francis still blamed Nate, after so many years, for Jack's death―and wasn't that incredible, when he'd never liked Jack, either? It wasn't Nate's decision that Jack should join the army, or that he be wounded and _die._ Francis would never admit that Jack had done what he did, for himself.

"A name is only a name," Danse said. "The person behind is what makes it great." He fixed the Robobrain with a scathing look. "Or small, as the case may be."

Francis sputtered something indignantly. Jeanne's eyes snapped to Danse, incredulous. She couldn't believe him, right now. And he thought he was terrible with words? She would have _killed_ to be able to snap at Francis like that!

She owed him _immensely._ Didn't know how she'd ever repay him―

Emboldened by the insult, she breathed out and stood a little straighter. Her mouth creased into a smile, falling into the familiar mold. "It has been nice to see you, Francis," she heard herself saying. "I am grateful to find you are alive and well. But, if you will excuse us?" She fixed a patient look on him, blinking rapidly to rid her eyes of the tears that still threatened. "We do have a _murder_ to investigate."

She turned on a heel and walked away, quickly and calmly.

She was alright. She _really_ _was._

* * *

"Was that 'alright'?" he asked, once they were far enough away from the Robobrain that she'd dropped her stiff strides and started relaxing. "I am not sure that I helped."

Johnson slowed, then took two steps to the side and hit the wall with her shoulder. "Thank you for stopping me," she said, sounding more composed than he would have guessed. "That would have ended much worse than it did, if you'd done nothing."

"Superior firepower doesn't always come in the form of bullets or blade," Danse said, evenly. "...If I have learned anything from traveling with you, it is that a well-placed word deals as much damage as any firearm." He stared at her head, curiously. "I'll admit I tried to keep up, but I did not understand some of what he was saying."

Johnson blew out a breath, loudly. "Well," she started, her voice drained but firm, "that... thing, in there, used to be... or is, definitely my brother Francis." She chuckled, wiping her nose. "Him being a Robobrain is actually an _improvement,"_ she finished, chuckling meanly. "He waddled about the house like a _penguin."_ Her face jerked into a quick grin, disappearing as swiftly.

"It's clear that you do not get along," Danse remarked.

Johnson nodded, tiredly. "That's an understatement."

"And his words were insults?"

"He said 'the faults of the parent show in the child'," she muttered. "Which is his way of spitting in my face that I am not really his sister."

"He certainly didn't seem to have a high opinion of your husband, either," Danse stated, curious as to how much she would deem to share with him. If he could press her for more, perhaps she would be amenable to―

He stemmed the thoughts, ignoring them as best he could. "Why is that?" he asked, gently.

"No, he didn't," she said, her voice growing tight. She didn't answer the question, though.

"Johnson... I've trusted you with intimate thoughts that I would not have, normally," he put forth, giving her a calculating look. "As I said before, your false cheer is only going to hinder us in our mission. I'm not even sure why you agreed to come _here,_ when it is obviously not productive."

"You said I needed to confront―" she jammed her mouth shut, shaking her head. "No... you said that I needed time to come to terms?"

Johnson sounded confused. He did recall asking if she needed time to deal with her past, before they continued, but he did not recall stating it as part of his ultimatum that she be honest.

Unless that was how she'd chosen to interpret his statement. If it was, he was glad that she had detoured to this Vault. There were glaring problems with her being on the Island. Her willingly choosing to address those issues would lead to a very pleasant outcome for the both of them.

...He hoped. His efforts thus far had produced some good effect, and he wanted that to continue.

"I am glad that you are not sliding back into your... normal routine," Danse said, shifting his weight. "You may speak your mind. You've got my full attention."

"I know. _Thank_ you." Johnson took a deep breath. "...I told you about being adopted."

Danse nodded, waiting for her to continue, patiently. She took a few more deep breaths, then pushed herself away from the wall. "Francis was―is―my oldest brother," she began, wringing her hands together. "He was ten years older than us." She sighed, dejectedly. "I don't know, maybe he thought I didn't deserve to be raised by the Pinsonneaults, or―or maybe he was jealous that I was named Jeanne, as was he and our father―"

She looked away, quickly rubbing her eyes. "Father... _pushed_ Francis. Made him work for everything he ever achieved. Jack and I did everything the easy way. That's what he thought."

"He must be very petty, to hold onto jealousy for so long," Danse murmured.

"If Francis has one virtue, it is that he runs his quarry to the ground every time," Johnson said, sounding as if she both admired and detested the thought. "Makes for a good defense attorney, but a poor human being. Which is why... he terrorized me, as a child."

"You are no longer a child," Danse pointed out.

"No, I'm not." She dropped her hands to her side. "But I still can't talk to him without starting a fight." She groaned, covering her face. "He hates me."

Danse watched her for a moment, wondering about... family. Something he'd had when he was in the Brotherhood, yet never truly appreciated. His family had been brothers and sisters who were not above such pettiness, but were forced into line by duty. Never before had he considered that to be remarkable.

"Are you 'alright', now?" he inquired, staring down at her.

Johnson snorted. She stared at the door opposite them, her face thoughtful and mouth pursed. "...I think I _am,"_ she said, surprise lacing her voice.

"Good to know." Danse held his rifle up, the barrel scraping the ceiling. "It's starting to feel cramped in here," he mentioned, as an aside.

"Let's get this done, then," she said, giving him a small, genuine smile. "Thanks for sticking up for me, back there." She wiped her face, and turned to face the hallway.

Danse nodded. "Anytime," he replied.

"When I was a child, Jack and Nate always stuck up for me." She sighed, but it was more resigned than sorrowful. "I suppose they thought I wouldn't be able to handle the matter, by myself."

"It was apparent that you would have attacked him," Danse stated. "Which was not something that would be... helpful, now."

"He always knew how to rub me just the wrong way," she muttered, sorely, as she walked down the hallway. _"You_ get to start the next fight."

"I doubt you would be able to stop me like so, if I chose to attack someone," Danse commented, wryly. "Being in my armor, I would probably only harm you _and_ the hostile I engaged."

Johnson laughed, her mood seemingly improving. "Who said I'd stop you, Danse?"

He felt the smile coming across his face before he could help himself. "You _would_ do best not to intervene," he said, letting himself enjoy the banter. The low ceiling loomed above his head, yet. "Let's double time this, Johnson. My armor wasn't made for lurking in small spaces."

"Of course," Johnson said, sounding content, as she picked up her feet.

* * *

For a murder plot, it wasn't a terribly complicated one. Jeanne sorted the information, finding the residents especially easy to talk to. She confronted her number one suspect―and was met with a satisfying, if somewhat unfortunate, solution.

Jeanne went into the "beach" room, after disclosing the information to Maxwell. She sat on the sand and stared at the painting of a sailboat, curling her legs under her body and thinking.

"This wasn't a complete waste of time," Danse said, coming up behind her. "There's a lot of valuable tech here."

"Yes." She traced the edge of the sail with her eyes. She was thinking about Danse. About the revelation he'd faced. How he must feel, to know he wasn't Real.

 _She_ wasn't doing a very good job of trading concerns. He'd mentioned that she would have to be patient with him, but she felt like she wasn't encouraging him to speak enough. She needed to... figure out how to get him to talk. That was how she could repay him―by sticking up for him, like he had for her―

Francis was upset that Danse had called him on his behavior, or he was deigning not to speak to them. Either way, he'd avoided them throughout the investigation, and she couldn't be happier.

"...You're being quiet." Danse's feet shifted on the sand, his movement uneasy.

"I'm very lucky," she answered, softly. "My brother being... alive, even if he was turned into―well, _that._ Lucky that he's here, and that I was able to find him." Jeanne put her chin in her hand and sighed. "Maybe I shouldn't push that luck."

Danse made a thoughtful noise. "Are you experiencing doubt about your actions?" he asked. His tone was apprehensive.

"No." She sighed. "No, I just... I wonder if it's tit for tat, actually."

He made a questioning noise, in reply. Jeanne leaned back on her hands and looked up at him from the sand. "Danse, why not get out of your armor?"

The look on his face would've made her laugh, in all honesty, but she was trying not to push that limit again. "Why would I do that?" he asked, his eyebrows drawn together.

She patted the sand beside her, invitingly. "It's _your_ turn," she said, keeping her eyes on his.

Danse hesitated as a gamut of emotions ran across his face. After the full course had gone over, he nodded stiffly. "Very well." There was a hiss and clanking as he disengaged from the suit, lowering himself to the sand.

She waited for him to settle on the ground―which was amusing, because Danse didn't really seem to know how he wanted to sit and kept fidgeting. He'd changed position several times before he settled on sitting cross-legged and stared at the sailboat.

"I don't want bad luck to come 'round," she said, still leaning on her hands. She turned her eyes from the boat onto him, considering him. "I owe you. So... no matter how patient I have to be... I want you to talk to me."

Danse laid his arms over his knees, sitting rigidly straight. His mouth tugged down, briefly. Finally, he sighed. "I suppose this is no different than the ultimatum I gave you," he said, leaning forward slightly.

"You make it sound awful," Jeanne said, trying her best not to laugh. "Just talk. What's on your mind. That sort of thing."

Danse stared at the sailboat for a long time, before he did speak.

"I don't know if what I feel is an anomaly in my programming. After all, I'm not really human." He looked down at the water, his eyes deepening.

"...And it scares the hell out of me."


	9. memory:no secrets

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

The first time Jeanne'd gone into the Institute, she'd felt an odd nostalgia. Seeing the place in its perfect cleanliness, the air not filled with the stink of Brahmin effluent or unwashed bodies, even the people who walked about without guarding themselves―it reminded her so strongly of Pre-War hospitals that she'd had to sit down and soak it in, before continuing.

A blast from the past, as some might say.

Hearing Danse talk like he was, his voice unsure and his body language reserved but indicating discomfort, also gave her a sense of nostalgia. Not because of his obvious association―naturally, he would have been 'born' inside the place―but because she'd seen the same behavior before, in the past.

It was enough to start a slow singe of her heart. Memories scaled the wall and fell into place, her thoughts moving toward Nate and Jack. Painful thoughts, but needed to correlate the situation.

He reminded her of Nate, when he'd joined the army. He'd talked about it with her, sitting in the Cove and acting much the same as Danse had. It was a big decision, he knew. He wanted to hear what she'd say about it.

Jack had been gung-ho about military service. His enthusiasm for getting into all manner of shenanigans was legendary, going all the way back to when they roamed the wilds of the Island as pirates or cowboys or knights of olden. Jeanne had trailed along as an accessory, the token girl. It wasn't like she _could_ pretend with them, not with Miss Nou trailing behind her and chiding her for even thinking about jumping in puddles or horsing around.

She'd had to be perfect.

Jack was fearless, strong, and always had a quick hand for protecting others. Mother hadn't put as much value on his behavior; maybe she thought Francis was the more important boy, the heir to the firm, or maybe she'd tried and Jeanne never noticed. Jack was too wild to capture, a Injun that whooped about the woods and painted himself with berries and always had a spot of poison ivy.

Nate... Nate had been a transplant to the Island, living down near Cromwell Cove with his aunt in a ramshackle cottage. The place became their kingdom by the sea, and... Nate prevailed as the sense of reason in their circle. Where Jack would have fought anyone for any reason―Old Jean once said he was Keats incarnate―Nate kept the peace. Sometimes he did so with rocks in his snowballs, but―

Jeanne wiped her face, surprised to find tears there. She hadn't meant to start thinking about him, it just―it just happened. The ache in her heart was terrible. It hurt. _Dieu,_ did it ever hurt, but... it wasn't as terrible as it had been. Maybe she _was_ getting better.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and surreptitiously cleaned her face, moving as if she was merely changing position. Changed her line of thought to the current situation.

Danse made a noise, and she pulled herself together. Looked up to him, and sighed internally. She was being selfish again―lost inside her own head―

" 'Not knowing who one is' ," she recalled. He'd said it to her, at Acadia.

"Yes," Danse said, his voice agitated. "I―I thought I knew. It doesn't make sense to me. I remember... everything. But not knowing if those memories are real or if they were planted―"

She watched his face. He looked stricken, but also angry. The same look he'd given DiMA, the same look she didn't like to see.

"The _when_ of it is what bothers me the most." He made a fist and breathed out, loudly. "If I knew when I replaced―"

"When." Jeanne turned her gaze back to the sailboat. She'd not thought about that. Danse _would_ want to know at what point he had been... well, when he was created, what had happened to him after. Why he was no longer inside the Institute. She mulled over the thought for a moment.

"If I could know how I was―at what point my memories were actually made by myself―even if they were made by a synth, knowing what to trust would be..." He closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. "I can trust that the ones I made after the revelation... are real. But what before that, _is?"_ Danse opened his eyes and ground his teeth in his jaw. "All of this feels like a cruel joke."

Jeanne paused. No wonder he was so angry about her making jokes, laughing at him. That made her feel worse than she had _before,_ even though she'd tried to explain. "Danse, I―" she said, keeping her face clear of any emotion, "―I really didn't mean to laugh _at_ you."

He made a dismissive noise, but didn't speak. Jeanne tightened her arms around her knees. She'd taken a lot of liberty with him, from the very beginning. Saved his life even though he'd told her not to, talked down Elder Maxson and put Danse in even more danger for remaining alive... kept him on because she was being selfish and didn't want to have to remember that she would've been responsible for his death―

"I can't run away from what I am." Danse sighed in frustration. "To find peace, I need to face the fact that I'm my own worst enemy and live with the consequences."

Jeanne glanced at him, a new wave of ache in her heart. She'd been her own worst enemy for so many years―after she'd left home, and her mother disinherited her―much to Francis' delight. He'd crowed in joy the day that she'd left.

 _Salaud._ Jeanne couldn't care less what _he_ thought.

She'd been her own enemy for so long, she'd forgotten how to be herself. She didn't want to see Danse go down that road.

"You know..." She moved her legs out and planted her feet on the sand, lowering her knees. "I wonder about the Nakano girl. Why she would think she was a synth. What could DiMA have said to her, to make her doubt her memories?"

Danse shot her a sharp look. She met his gaze, seeing him process the thought. An unpleasant expression came over his face, showing how disgusted with the idea he was. "He has sown doubt in the mind of a young person," he said, sounding furious, "using existential fear. We must remove that fear, and those who deliberately cause it."

"Wasn't my point," she murmured, turning her head away from the awful glare he was giving her. "Everything she remembers is corroborated by her parents, by the people she grew up with. She doubts them, but..." She leaned forward, her hands on her knees. _"Your_ memories are backed up by the people who knew you, too. By Haylen, by me, by Maxson." She watched him from the corner of her eyes.

"Do they remember?" Danse's hands shook from the force with which he clenched his fists. "Was the person who became friends with Cutler in Rivet City―with Maxson, with the Scribes, the Knights in the Brotherhood―was that the synth that I _am?"_

"Yes," Jeanne answered, her voice firm. "Your memories with them must be real. Those people remember, just like you. Maxson wouldn't have let you go, as easily as he had, if he didn't remember the same."

"I've tried to come to terms with it." Danse shook his head. "But there's nothing I can justify as the truth. The memories I do have will always be suspect―"

"They make you who you are," she put in, calmly. "You said it yourself, Danse." Jeanne looked over to him again, noting the confusion on his face. "Without your memories, you can't accept that you _are_ who _you_ are."

"I don't know if I can embrace my memories―make them Real, like your Rabbit." Danse's voice grew even harder, and he clenched both hands into fists. "I don't know that I could ever accept that I may have replaced a living flesh-and-blood human being. I―"

Could he really have replaced―whoever the real Danse had been? Jeanne wondered about that for a moment. "I don't think you replaced someone," she said, quietly. "There wouldn't have been time. You told me that you had been under attack since the moment that you arrived in the Commonwealth. And... the Institute would need time―"

She stopped herself short of repeating what she'd read about the Warwick man. _Interrogation. Forty-eight hours worth,_ she thought. Enough time to push him to the very edge, get the man to spill his guts about his life―

She seriously doubted that, if _Danse_ had replaced someone, forty-eight hours would be _enough_ time to break a Brotherhood Paladin.

"You also said hiding who you are isn't a solution to a problem. If they had put you in place of someone else, wouldn't Rhys and Haylen notice?" she settled, feeling slightly sick to her stomach. Danse's jaw worked furiously, turning his head to stare at the sailboat.

"You've been in the Brotherhood for years, Danse." She coughed. "Rhys and Haylen would have seen something. Known something. Haylen... when Maxson sent me to find you―" she paused and took a deep breath. "Haylen said, _'There are no secrets in the Brotherhood.'_ "

Danse was quiet for a long time, his face registering all manner of emotion. She stared at him, hoping her point would come across. That there was nothing he could do about his memories, yes, but that he had always been the _Real_ Danse.

"I must be missing the point." Danse flattened his hands and leaned more weight onto his knees. "I have to accept that I am who I am. My life's starting over, and I need to appreciate that."

 _Mine started over too,_ Jeanne thought, sadly. When she stepped out of the Vault, when she'd lost Nate, when Shaun was taken―

But... _plus ça change plus c'est la même chose._ Old Jean used it to explain everything, in an flippant manner. Jeanne knew the world was always changing, even in the wastes, but it was all the same. She'd not changed and the world, while different in appearance, was still run by people, who were always the same...

Even though _she_ could trust that her past was real, it had begun anew. What had happened, and what could happen, she couldn't run away from the Island, and give up on their mission. She needed to embrace and confront her own feelings, like Danse was. She had to see this through.

If _Danse_ could continue existing even though his being a synth was incompatible with his ideals, then she could survive broadcasting her past to other people. She could... stop pretending that everything was 'alright' and let her true feelings show, and work through her problems in a more healthy manner. It would stop her from reacting in the way she had when she lost it outside of Acadia, and would―would make it easier to bring Kasumi home, which was why they'd come to the Island to begin with.

Jeanne couldn't even remember when she mastered the smile, she'd been putting on the show for so long. Well before Jack had joined the army, well before she married Nate. She sighed to herself, blinking tiredly at the mural on the wall. That would be the hardest part of this―letting herself show the truth―not fitting her face with a fake smile to show that she was 'alright'.

She supposed that she'd already made progress. Danse being beside her, saying that it was alright to show her feelings and he his, made it easier. Probably the last person she would have expected to share like he was, or even show how weak he could truly be under all that Power Armor. Emotion swelled in her chest, seeing him in his vulnerable state. She wasn't sure what to make of it―

She leaned her head forward and placed her forehead onto her knees, closing her eyes and trying not to think about anything.

"Trust isn't something I can hand out easily, especially given the nature of my true identity." Danse was looking at her, now, but she didn't return the gaze. "I... realize I've pushed you to confront your memories, and I apologize for how forward I've been. I don't want you to think that I'm using you as a means to my own ends―"

"I couldn't possibly think that," Jeanne said, turning her head to him. She smiled, tiredly. "You aren't the _selfish_ type."

"I..." He hesitated. "I know you can't fully understand what I am going through." His eyes bored into her head. "But you've made some points that I will think about, and you've listened to my troubles. Thank you for that."

"Telling someone your feelings isn't easy, either," she replied. "Thank you for trusting _me._ I haven't been... the best, about trust."

Danse paused, then shook his head slightly. "You are a sister in arms, Johnson. If I didn't stick by you, and you by me, then I would have no one to rely upon." He pushed himself up from the sand, patting his legs to remove the sand.

That emotion in her chest swelled like high tide, an imaginary moon pulling the feeling closer and closer to her head. She―

Remembered when Nate asked her to marry him. After telling her he was going to join up, after asking her if she thought that was a good idea. Jack had already left home, and she'd been so stressed―her mother taking every opportunity to criticize her, Francis blaming Nate, the daily fights―she'd run off to the Cove and cried her eyes out. It was the first time she'd managed to get away from Miss Nou for more than five minutes.

Nate found her, there. Said he was leaving, too. Nothing before had ever felt so crushing, to know that both of them would be gone and she'd be left behind to the mercy of her mother. No one left to protect her, nothing to look forward to―

Nate sat in the Cove with her until she stopped bawling, then promised he'd find a way to help. She'd waited for Nate for four years, wondering why he'd never written to her, wondering why Jack hadn't written home. Until―

Jeanne covered her face and stilled the tears that wanted to overtake her, trying to keep her head. That was why. She couldn't face being alone on this damnable Island. Because she had been left alone before―

And Jack never came _back._

"Johnson." Danse's voice cut through her misery, almost annoyed in tone.

"Yes?" she asked, freeing her head of the thoughts. She looked up at him, seeing him standing there, his eyes intent on hers and a stringent look on his face.

"...I hadn't fully considered our situation, before. My opinion of your friendship was swayed by what I perceived as deceit. I know, now―" he looked away, his eyes darkening slightly "―that I was wrong to lose faith in your words. Will you accept my apology?"

"You don't need to apologize," she said, her voice weak.

"I still feel―"

"Let's compromise," Jeanne said, keeping her face as neutral as she could. "Neither one of us is all that good with... openly saying how we feel. It's exhausting." She tried to smile a little.

"What is the compromise?" Danse asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he turned back.

She closed her eyes and snorted. "I don't know. We can't keep saying sorry to each other, for a start."

Danse paused, briefly. "You're right," he said. "Very well, Johnson. I'll accept your apology for laughing at me, if you accept mine. We will leave it at that."

Jeanne watched him moving to his armor, re-entering it. She pushed herself up from the sand, finally, and rubbed her wrists. "Listen," Danse added, after he was settled, "I do appreciate that you've done what you can to meet my terms."

She nodded, thinking the same about him―that he'd been remarkable in his attempt to work with her through her what she felt was her losing her mind.

"And I wouldn't push, if this matter didn't affect the both of us." Danse turned and faced her, looking down at her from the armor.

Sort of expected it, now. Pushing was normal for Danse, she knew, though prying into her business was something she'd thought he'd let be. Actually, his attitude at the moment was more akin to when he'd been angry at her outside of Acadia. Maybe that was what he was referring to... she felt the strain of little sleep and stress weighing on her, heavily.

"I think you're right," she admitted, finally. "Talking about it. Trading concerns. At least..." She managed a weary half-smile. "Well, with blackmail like this on each other, neither of us will _out_ the other."

"Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?" he stated, his voice once again guarded, ignoring her comment.

"Yes," she agreed, turning to lead the way back through the Vault. The emotion from before had simmered, but still... _why?_ She couldn't make heads nor tails of it, why she'd suddenly had the rush of an indefinable tide to her brain.

Her thoughts were scrambled, as they made their way back through the Vault.


	10. memory:toy

Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

The residents of the Vault had moved away from the theater room, each to their own devices. Danse hadn't yet allowed himself to think about the ramifications of a man choosing to place his brain into a robot body, primarily because he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts on being a synth.

Now that the matter _had_ been aired, he understood better what Johnson believed. By pointing out what perceivable inconsistencies might exist, she'd attempted to reconcile his past. But... it had the unfortunate effect of exacerbating his infirm mental state. If those inconsistencies were not the absolute _truth,_ then―

He tried not to imagine what _could_ be, or if his past was decidedly more sinister than Johnson's opinion of it.

He was left wanting again, without an answer. He would _always_ doubt himself. Knowing that she had a definite view of his origin didn't make him feel better; it only proved to him that other people would have made their own decision about his past as well, and those opinions were just as clear-cut as hers.

He did not know how to feel about that, other than becoming more angry. His mood had been aggravated by her attitude, also―she hadn't made much effort to directly address him, and he'd had the suspicion that she wasn't truly listening.

He felt his words had bounced off of Johnson, rather than sink in. He'd confirmed his suspicions, after she'd stared off into the air and ignored his attempts to catch her attention. He'd thought their rapport was going well, and―he could say that it was, somewhat, but he still did not know how to properly gauge any affinity she might have for him. Or he for her, given her strange social interaction with her brother.

It was similar to her behavior in the Glowing Sea. He'd spoken to her about their goals, about living up to the standards the Brotherhood imposed on its members. Johnson was extremely agitated by the Child of Atom in Sentinel Site, and he'd had no idea she was capable of such virulence until that time. He'd never, even to this day, received an explanation for that behavior.

However... Johnson's willingness to broach the subject of his origin, of her own volition, was impressive. It negated his anger, at the very least, that she'd made further effort to be honest. He was convinced that she could do anything she put her mind to, if she so chose.

With or without that irritating smile, she was capable of more than she let on. Would that he could borrow some of that nerve, to deal with his own problems.

He'd fallen to the pride that had damned him with Cutler. The caustic sting of grief, coupled with that damnable pride, bored a hole through him that was irreparable. Much as he wanted to distrust his memories―he would always come back to them. The memories of Cutler, especially, were swords that he fell upon, willingly.

If Johnson was completely right about anything and he _was_ a toy, then being Real absolutely _did_ hurt. Maybe more pain than he was capable of bearing.

Danse sighed, rubbing his face as he followed her back through the Vault. Both knew that neither would speak of the matter. Keeping appearances was far too great a concern―she for different reasons than he―and he would always feel compelled to maintain his Brotherhood persona no matter who he truly turned out to _be._

Danse moved his mind onto the Vault, feeling mentally exhausted. Why the people, here, had deliberately attempted to stay their own deaths in the way they had, he would never understand. Johnson seemed to accept it as a farce, her words relating to her brother indicating she felt it was ridiculous. In her brother's case, as she had said, an _improvement._ It was easier for her to treat the matter as a joke, rather than come to terms with the reality.

He did not know if he felt that the whole of it was ridiculous or flat-out obtuse; after hearing the actress speaking about returning to her career, he wondered if time had taken its toll on the aged brains of the residents. The mere fact that they _had_ tried to stay their natural deaths was enough to convince him of human folly.

He had mentioned to Johnson that the technology in the place was valuable. She knew the Brotherhood's stance on the matter.

But she had saved him, and she knew how they felt about synths.

Danse felt a spike of pain through his inner eye, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes.

Johnson stopped once, on the way out of the Vault. Took a deep breath before entering the tiny shop inside the place, and purchased some ammo from the Miss Nanny. Her face was pale and eyes wide, but she completed the transaction and left without saying a word.

"Back to the Harbor?" she asked, as she re-entered the _Vim!_ power armor outside of the hotel. She paused before putting on her helmet, staring into the distance.

"Yes," he said, his thoughts stuck on human folly and the increasing pain in his head.

The sun had risen while they were inside the Vault, rays of light shining through the Fog and dividing. The Fog itself was burning off somewhat, the ground warming in the sun, giving them greater visibility. The muted orange of dead leaves and the faint glow of the Blight met their eyes, contrasting with the stark blackness of fallen trees and wet vegetation.

This was not what he had left behind, so many years before. The Capital Wasteland had been bleak, a black and white palette of rare inhabitation, compared to this place. It was stunningly beautiful, this Island. The Commonwealth was no different, in its appeal.

Everywhere he looked, he saw a real world. A world where he'd never belonged.

"Danse?"

He jerked out of his thoughts. Johnson was frowning, staring at him. She held the helmet in both hands, an eyebrow popping up.

"Did you need something?" he asked, evenly, wondering why his mind had gone off on that tangent. It didn't seem applicable―a glitch, perhaps, in his programming―to stare at the landscape without being on guard or seeking out resource. His mood fell into a darker place than he physically occupied, thinking about it.

"No," Johnson said. "You had a... strange look on your face." Her eyebrow lowered. "Everything alright?"

"I hardly think the openness of this place lends to another discussion of that kind," Danse replied, lifting his rifle.

"No, I guess not," she said, sounding slightly dismayed. She applied the helmet to her head and tapped the light. "Let's head back. We haven't slept in a good long while."

"Yes," he repeated, his voice faint.

Johnson started off through the trees back toward the road. Danse swept his eyes over the world once more, taking in the sight, before reapplying his own helmet and following her.

* * *

"It doesn't feel like ten A.M., does it?" Jeanne said, staring at the decorations hanging along the ceiling in The Last Plank. The lighting inside the bar was brighter than she'd thought it would be, illuminating the unwashed patrons.

The room was quiet but for the muttering of people on either end, some staring at Danse's unoccupied armor and others not hiding their interest in the duo. Jeanne didn't feel comfortable, at all. Her nerves were beginning to fray, listening to the suspicious overtones throughout the bar. She wished her hearing wasn't quite so good.

"No," Danse replied, his eyes intent on the bottle of _Vim!_ that was in his hand.

She turned to him, sitting across from her at the table. She'd eaten her meal and was waiting patiently for him to finish. Danse appeared to be having some doubts about how potable _Vim!_ actually was.

She'd never cared for the stuff, before the War. It tasted like someone shoved a rotting fish into a bottle, from what she remembered. Jack used to tease her and Nate about their dislike of the soda―

Her thoughts sobered as the memory crested the wall inside her head. Another shot fired at her, from the past. Another landmine she'd walked onto, unwittingly. Another thing that―

She fought the frown coming across her face. Tried to let it go, give into the feeling. It wasn't easy.

"Later," she said, moving her fork to sit on top of the dirtied plate, "we should head along the coast and deal with the lighthouse, that the Dalton woman was talking about."

Danse opened then closed his mouth, his eyes stuck to the _Vim!_ bottle. He spoke in a lowered voice, when he finally looked up. "Yes," he stated. He sounded... angry, again.

Jeanne smiled, but the corners of her mouth faltered. The light in the bar glinted off the label of the _Vim!_ bottle. She supposed he was still trying to make sense of his past, of his memories.

Danse's hand tightened, gloves squeaking against the glass. She glanced at his face, her eyebrows pulling together with concern. Her hand, which had been idly adjusting the fork on her plate, stilled. She moved it beside the ceramic, laying it flat against the broken tabletop, and considered him, silently.

"Danse?" she asked, after a moment. "Are you... alright?"

Danse didn't reply, staring at the bottle. He moved to open it, suddenly, and took a swig. The look on his face was one of utter disgust, and she wanted to genuinely laugh at that―but she didn't _dare._ Danse might think she was making him into a joke, again.

He coughed loudly, thumping the bottle onto the table and making a face. "No, I am not _alright,"_ he said, angrily and somewhat breathless.

Jeanne moved the _Vim!_ bottle to her side of the table, casually swapping it for the Nuka-Cola she'd barely touched. Danse grabbed the proffered drink, tilting his head back and downing it in one go. Jeanne watched his Adam's apple bobbing, then dropped her eyes to the table.

"It's an acquired taste," she murmured, picking up the _Vim!_ bottle and sniffing the top. She stared at the label for a long moment, before placing it down and pushing herself into a stand. "I'm going to rent a room," she went on, keeping her voice low.

Danse slapped the Nuka-Cola to the table as he had the other bottle, staring directly across from himself without a word. Jeanne moved away, unsure what else to do. She walked to the bar, paying Mitch what he asked for the room, then glanced back at Danse.

He'd placed his head in his hands, staring intently at the table. The expression on his face hadn't changed; he still looked angry.

"Moody one, isn't _he?"_ Mitch asked, his voice loud and carrying through the bar.

Jeanne jumped a little, looking to the man. "Not usually," she said, keeping her voice calm. "Today was... stressful."

Mitch grinned. "Hard day? _I_ got the cure." He moved to grab a bottle, exaggerating his mannerisms as he had the first time she'd come to The Last Plank.

Jeanne eyed the stairs, thinking. "I don't―" she started, turning to squint at Mitch.

"I could use a drink," Danse interrupted, coming up behind her and slapping his hands onto the counter top. He leaned into the surface, arms extended and shoulder muscles bunched underneath his Brotherhood jumpsuit.

"Danse?" Jeanne said, staring at him. He turned his head to look at her, shooting her such a withering look that she gasped in shock. His eyes softened before he returned them to Mitch, all without a word to her.

 _Merde,_ that was―she'd never―the look on his face was awful! Whatever was going through his mind must be absolutely _horrible,_ to warrant such a face. He was more upset by his past than she'd thought, even after she'd listened to his thoughts back in the Vault―

She swallowed, her mouth dry, trying to sort her thoughts. "Danse?" she repeated, moving her hands to touch each other. She stopped herself before she wrung them together, before she could betray her nervousness.

Mitch slapped a room key and a bottle of vodka on the counter, leaning back and nodding at them. "It's upstairs," he said, nodding to them.

Danse snapped up both items, quickly moving to the upper floor with long steps. Jeanne glanced back at his power armor, frowning in confusion, before following him to the room she'd rented. He wouldn't leave the armor out for someone to vandalize unless there was something going on―

She felt dumb, then, because it had been apparent that there was something on his mind since they'd left the Vault, but she'd chosen not to press him. When Danse stopped talking to her, she knew there was a heavy thought on his mind.

Jeanne smacked herself mentally, and followed him upstairs. When she caught up to him, he'd gone into the room and parked himself on the bed, and was downing the vodka doggedly. "Hey?" she asked, failing to keep the uncertainty from entering her voice. "What's going on?"

He dropped the bottle to the floor, leaning an elbow onto his knee and putting his face in his hand again, eyes darkened and shoulders hunched. "If I was human, this would be a hell of a lot easier," he muttered, his voice empty.

Jeanne understood, then. Everything that he'd spoken earlier had come back on him just as her memories came back on her. She'd had years of practice at hiding that pain, but he'd... he'd never _needed_ to hide. He'd _really_ never assumed he could be a synth.

"You're not a machine, Danse." Jeanne moved closer, staring him down. "You're not. You're more human than most people could ever hope to be." She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling her confidence bolstering. "And you know being human wouldn't stop this from being hard. I'll listen, no matter what. We compromised, right?"

"Will you, _really?_ You certainly don't seem like you care." Danse closed his eyes and made another terrible face.

"I know you didn't mean that the way you said it," Jeanne said, feeling a sense of bitter familiarity.

"No, I didn't." Danse worked a hand around his forehead, rubbing his eye socket and eyebrow. "...I can't even trust myself to speak what I _mean,_ goddammit."

"What?" She moved further into the room and shut the door behind her, quietly. "Danse―"

He snorted, loudly. "Everything I had, everything I knew is gone. I have no purpose, anymore―" He flung an arm up, angrily.

"Danse," she said, soothingly. "You―"

"I'm a soulless machine," he snapped, then sighed in frustration. "Nothing more than an abomination destined to destroy humanity, just as Maxson said."

"You are _not,"_ Jeanne protested, reaching out a hand and stopping herself before she placed it onto his shoulder. She smiled at him, genuinely, and removed her hand almost immediately. "You are... a slightly inebriated and rightfully _angry_ man, who needs to get some sleep."

"I will never be as human as I feel." Danse ran a hand over his face, pausing as he covered his mouth. "All of this―confuses me to no end," he said, his words muffled by his hand.

Jeanne didn't know what to say. All she could have done was listen. She'd tried to assuage him, in the Vault. It clearly wasn't enough. He would still think what he wanted, and her efforts had raked up his temper. She had no idea how to deal with that temper. She'd never seen Danse so angry.

Jeanne didn't deal well with other people's anger, even on a good day. As stubborn as she could be about some things, she'd always caved into others―excepting Francis, that one fateful day―and let herself be trod upon. Followed orders, whether from her mother or from Elder Maxson.

Up until she was told to kill Danse. Her own temper flared, recalling that―she started to force it down, but stopped herself. She _hadn't_ killed him. She _hadn't_ followed orders, that day.

Even if she'd done that for a selfish purpose, she had broken rank. And... the only conceivable way she could deal with this, she suddenly thought, was to push back. Like she had against Francis, like she had against Maxson.

"Well," she said, moving to stand beside him and crossing her arms over her chest, "I'm a useless human being, too."

"You certainly _don't_ listen," Danse reiterated, glancing up angrily.

"No, I don't," she shot back. "I never listened to you at the Dalton farm and I certainly didn't listen to you at Acadia, did I?" She glared at him. "You said we should deal with problems, head-on. And here you are, drinking and trying to escape the problem."

Danse dropped his hands, leaning both elbows onto his knees. He stared at the floor, working his jaw. After a moment, he rubbed his forehead again, grimacing.

"I know exactly how hard it is to admit weakness, Danse," Jeanne said, pinching her face at him. "Neither one of us can afford to. I don't know how to fix this, or what to say to make this better. I doubt you do, either."

"No," he muttered, his voice faltering.

"What I do know is that you are stronger than this." Jeanne shifted her weight, leaning on her left leg and feeling exhausted. "You are better than this sort of behavior, and you are certainly capable of moving past it."

This was how Danse would deal with it, she knew. Tough love. He'd forced her to come out with the truth, pushed her into a situation where she'd had to break. It was only fair that she push him the same way.

Danse sputtered out an incredulous laugh, lowering his hand and looking up at her. "You don't even try, and still―" he quickly looked away, taking a deep breath. He was quiet again, blinking furiously.

"Is there something in particular that's bothering you, Danse?" Jeanne asked. "If there is, I'd like to listen. At least let me prove to you I'm able to _do_ so."

Danse shuddered, almost imperceptibly, and nodded. He turned back to her, pain in his eyes. Grief. The same look he'd had on his face when he told Francis that Nate was dead―

She felt a sudden quaver inside her ribs, and stilled her face from registering the painful ache. Whatever that was―again, she felt the confusion, couldn't understand why she was trembling inside. The tide was back.

"I've never talked to you about Cutler," Danse said, sounding absolutely miserable.


	11. memory:hell

Note: Major edit to the end. Sorry about the long wait. Had to tie in an idea.

* * *

Barrels burned in the darkness surrounding the bombed-out building, the slight drizzle of rain bringing angry hissing noises to the squad's ears. Before them, the remains of Super Mutants littered a cramped courtyard, the hectic display of might having ended with Brotherhood victory.

Danse lifted a hand and motioned for the Field Scribe to hack the magnalock on the building's door, his eyes scanning the area for further enemies. The Knights were on the perimeter, some twenty feet away, weapons at the ready and attitude on point.

Their operation, thus far, could be considered as going well. The Scribe tapped at the security terminal to the right of the door, Danse blinked away rain and strained his ears for movement. Hissing sounds of rain wetting fuel, sharp taps of keys, and a faint, low-toned distant thumping could be heard.

Nearly three weeks, they had been looking. The Knights had been indispensable in the search, their methods sound and minds steeled to the mission goal. They were doing their brothers and sisters proud. Each one knew the mission would be difficult but each knew that if they were in the same position, someone would come for them as Danse was coming for _his_ brother.

Cutler. Danse stared at the rusted doors as the magnalock unsealed and the metal screeched open, moving forward to shield the Scribe as he hastily moved away from the now-open building. He had put himself in a perilous position, asking Maxson for the right to find Cutler, but it was worth the peace of mind that it would bring. No matter the outcome.

The soldiers entered the building. No outlying force was present. He called for two Knights to withdraw from guarding the perimeter, moving inside the building with the Scribe in tow. The others would remain on guard, and provide backup.

Piles of bloodied flesh, stripped from the bodies of wastelanders and mutated animals alike, were bound inside chain nets and strung about the building. A lone barrel burned in the corner, illuminating some of the room, but not all; Danse switched on his light, and scanned the area quickly.

He hadn't let himself imagine what could have happened to Cutler, but he'd held onto the hope that Cutler was holed up somewhere inside this building with his squad―the signs certainly seemed to have shown him to be alive, his team having found small clues of their action as they'd gone about their mission. None of the others had been found, yet, bolstering his confidence that they would be found alive.

The building was swept without a word. Not even Danse's normal calls for regroup or affirmation of loyalty could be heard. Each soldier was silent, fighting against the abominations inside the darkened shell of Pre-War accomplishment.

After reaching the highest point of the building, there were no answers. The Scribe located an elevator that appeared to lead to a sub-basement, and orders were given to make the trip. Danse's heart sank as each floor went by, feeling the inevitable crush of the unknown.

He firmed himself against that emotion. It would only interfere with his work. With finding Cutler.

Brotherhood soldiers poured out into an immediate firefight as they exited the elevator, pushed into the fray as soon as their boots hit the ground. Lasers shone through the air, demoralizing calls from the mutants sounded, orders were hastily given to secure their defense. Every soldier was resolute in the knowledge that together, they would triumph.

Even _he_ thought so, as they pressed back against the mutants. He'd been completely assured in his ideas, pushing out all doubt―until the first of Cutler's squad was found.

A man trapped inside of his own power armor, his head pulped into an unrecognizable mash as he'd stood against the monsters. He stood, still, arms slack at his side and body rotting away inside of the armor. The Scribe's stomach finally turned, retching into a corner when one of the Knights retrieved the man's holotags and gently pried him from the armor. Pneumatic seals on his power armor had burst with the man's decomposition, rusted through from bodily fluids and an unbearable stench. Danse remained as firm as he could, but the dismay was almost too much.

They found more of them without their armor, skinned with flesh peeled from from their bones like the victims in the tower. Without the holotags, those men would never have been recovered. Danse's will began to quaver, seeing his brothers torn to shreds by the filthy mutants. He kept his wits; it wouldn't do to have the men see him falter.

But what came next was far worse than he was prepared for. Another skirmish on a lower level, an unsteady catwalk over vats of roiling, putrefying liquid. Several of the bastards were patrolling the walk, and rushed to combat as soon as they'd spotted the Brotherhood―

The smell was indescribable. Even through his helmet's filters he could make out the terrible decay, the rancid smell of half-cooked meat. Carcasses littered the lower level, half-formed things that might have been men frozen in death with hellish expressions on their faces. The atrocities of nature were proof that everything he and his men were fighting for, was worth their effort.

They had entered Hell.

An acrid taste filled his mouth from the chemical-laden contents of the vats and the heat of the room was pressing on the soldiers, causing unsteadiness. Danse's armor was the only thing keeping him from feeling the full effect of the horror they had discovered; the Scribe fell back behind the Knights and gripped his laser pistol with white-knuckled hands, eyes wide in a bloodless and sweat-drenched face.

A final battle was had against the brutes, including a black-eyed mutant wearing Brotherhood holotags around a thick neck―

He'd found Cutler.

But by God, he wished he _hadn't._

* * *

Johnson was still standing in front of him, as he collected his thoughts to explain to her why he was so―agitated. He'd lost his temper, and she was rightfully angry with him. It was unbecoming of him, even if he was so put out by his feelings about his origin.

She was right about it being tit for tat. The same push he'd given Johnson was now being employed on him, and effectively so. Once the matter was done with, he knew he would appreciate her actions. But at this time―he was too preoccupied to think straight. Or maybe that was the liquor he'd drank. He regretted that, now.

"Those wretched abominations had slaughtered everyone but Cutler," he said, his voice strained. "But... he wasn't Cutler anymore. I had to... it was my duty to..."

"It was the right thing to do," Johnson said, her voice shaking slightly. "If you had been in that position, Cutler would have done the same for you."

"Ever since Cutler died, I've seen other soldiers come and go. Some were brave, some were honest... hell, some were even downright heroic." Danse sighed. "But I'd never consider any of them to be a good friend, a friend like Cutler was. I―" He made a fist and stared at his hand, working his jaw. "Having a bond with someone then losing them... it changes you. I couldn't..." He released the fist and stared at his palm, frustrated. "And now, I'll never know if that bond was _real."_

Johnson moved, suddenly, sitting on the bed beside him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders awkwardly. Danse froze, his body gone rigid against the unexpected contact. She breathed heavily against his jumpsuit for a moment, then spoke in a sorrowful voice.

"I know _exactly_ how that feels, Danse," she mumbled, her head pressing against his shoulder. "That memory... you _can_ trust." She released him, then, moving backward quickly and scooting herself along the bed into the nearby chair. Put distance between them, her face flushed with blood and hands wringing together nervously.

"To feel so strongly about someone is a real thing," she mumbled.

He was surprised by her forwardness, too surprised to react. Johnson's face began to drain of blood, then fill again, slowly, as she started to talk.

"When... Nate, was killed." She looked down at her hands and dropped them to her lap, sitting with her back as straight as a board on the metal. "The first thing I thought, coming out of the pod, was that I'd had a nightmare. I... I didn't want to believe it, I was sure that I'd dreamed it―and I thought―" She sniffled and wiped her face, hen rubbed her hands together again. "He was in the pod, just as frozen as I had been. I opened it, hoping he was... praying that I'd been mistaken. I... wasn't."

A deep sigh came from her throat, filled with a keening undertone that spoke of ache and despair. Danse shifted himself to face her, still guarded against her unexpected affection.

"That brief moment when I tried to convince myself that I'd only had a nightmare?" she glanced at him, eyes no longer empty but glistening black orbs in the poorly-lit room. "That was hope. I fed it because I needed to, then. Losing Nate meant losing _everything―"_ She looked away, her face stricken and hands still wringing together. "Every shred of hope I had disappeared when I opened that pod."

He paused, the words at the tip of his tongue stopped by hers. Seeing Johnson in the state she was, imagining how distraught she had been when she found her husband dead... days earlier, he would have made a blunt statement that it wasn't possible for her to evince _any_ true emotion. Even if she'd shown her ire inside of Sentinel Site, he would've assumed that she was incapable of experiencing the full force of grief.

This new Johnson was something he wasn't entirely sure how to interpret, given her past behavior. The feeling that she wasn't being honestly sympathetic had crossed his mind during their previous conversations, but this―this wasn't the same.

 _"You_ haven't lost hope, have you, Danse?" she asked, her voice cracking. "If you have..."

"Perhaps I have... misplaced it," he admitted, trying to sort through the confluence of emotions and thoughts in his head. "The stress of this mission, combined with my own interest in it, has led to an unbecoming state of affairs."

"For all the good I've done the Brotherhood," Johnson said nervously, wiping her face again, "I'm just as bad at being a human being as the things we fight against. If hiding your grief because you don't trust your memory is what makes you a synth, that's fine. But by that definition, _I'm_ a synth."

Danse snorted in disbelief. "That is a ridiculous assumption to make."

"Is it? I told you―when Maxson sent me to destroy you―that everything you felt was what made you human. It isn't all biology and physical appearance." She glanced at him, her face uncertain but voice growing more confident. "Sometimes it's being _hurt._ Sometimes it's hiding the hurt, and sometimes it's―letting the hurt out." Her eyes dropped to the floor, again. "Soulless machines don't _feel the hurt."_

He was ashamed to know of himself that the only reason he'd been so combative was that he'd felt Johnson hadn't listened. She had. He felt very much a cad, for lashing out in such a childish way.

His headache was lessening, dulled by the slow encroachment of inebriation. He focused himself as best he could, fixing her with a serious look. "Even though I may feel, I still need to embrace that I am what―"

"Who," she interrupted, sharply, without looking at him.

 _"―Who_ I am." He made a face. "It has taken me this long to understand that I _should_ place importance on my past, but not allow my doubts to affect my future."

She sniffled, and cleaned her face carefully. "It's funny," she said, her voice still somewhat shaken. "You're remembering, and I want to forget. It should be the other way around."

Danse smiled, gently, agreeing with her. "Not to put too fine a point on it," he said, "but if we both lost hope in this place, we would go down together." His face felt warm, flushed with blood and the fuzz of drunkenness. His inopportune choice to drink the vodka was catching up with him, too quickly.

"I'd rather go down with you than anyone else," Johnson said, pushing herself up from the chair and turning to him. "But not anytime _soon."_

"Agreed." Danse cleared his throat. "Johnson, if you wouldn't mind..." He gestured at the door, vaguely.

"I'll bring your armor up," she said, moving across the floor and placing a hand on the doorknob. "You need sleep more than I do, after all this." She paused, then looked back at him. "...Are we alright?"

He considered her for a long moment, feeling sleep starting to overtake his mind. Everything that had been said was jumbled inside of his head, unable to be untangled. He blinked back dizziness and slowly nodded at her. "We are."

Johnson turned further, keeping her hand on the door. "Do you still want to sort out the lighthouse in the morning?"

"Of course," he said, stifling a yawn. He put a hand out and gripped the frame of the bed, afraid he would slip off the bed when he inevitably passed out―

 _"Dormez bien,_ Danse," she said, and left the room.

* * *

Jeanne wore the armor up to the to top floor, moving as quietly as she could in the bulky X-01. Danse had one leg off the edge of the bed when she re-entered the room, and she wasn't sure what to make of him.

He looked a lot more peaceful than he had earlier, a soft snore coming from him as he lay sprawled on the mattress. One hand was gripping the bar at the edge―he'd literally laid backward and passed out. She exited the armor, feeling uncomfortable, and removed the fusion core before she gently shut the door to the room.

She parked herself back in the bar, staring at the empty Nuka-Cola bottle that Danse hadn't discarded. There were at least two Nuka-Cherry in her pack, but she wasn't interested in the soda at the moment.

Sat there, staring at the glass and thinking about Nate. About what she'd told Danse. It was true that she'd never let the tragedy get to her; like he'd mentioned before, she'd put on the smile and breezed through the Commonwealth like she hadn't lost her entire family, like she'd woken up feeling refreshed from a 200-year sleep.

But what she hadn't mentioned, to anyone she'd met, was what happened when she left the pod. Her eyes filled with tears, even trying to skirt the memory again.

Going after Kellogg... hearing his taunts on the P.A. in Fort Hagen, knowing she was about to face down the man who'd destroyed what she and Nate might have been able to revive―knowing that the man had her son, somehow―

And the lies, _Dieu,_ the lies. Kellogg telling her in his wry way that Shaun would be different than she remembered. She was so glad to have put a round into the insufferable cyborg's _head._

The Brotherhood, then. Felt better knowing she had an army at her back. Maxson wasn't a pleasant person, ever, but she was on good terms with him after helping with so many other things, doing missions with the little ones and bringing back vials of blood for Scribe Neriah. Threw herself into that, to keep herself from thinking about what could have been―

She'd done everything she'd _needed_ to do on autopilot. Kept herself from thinking too hard about what had happened.

Much like Danse must have. She'd assumed he dealt with the matter on his own, after Maxson left them at the listening post. Told him to come along with her, couldn't bear to see him abandoned to the wastes like she had. But he hadn't dealt with it.

Neither had _she._

Jeanne slowly lowered the bottle to the table, placing it down very gently despite her shaking hands. Was that why she felt so weak lately? Why her chest kept hurting and why she couldn't bear to see Danse as saddened as he was, about his past? Why it was starting to become difficult for her, to stop the feelings in her head and the swell of the tide?

She leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands covering her face. It was true that she'd lost hope. Years upon years of hiding her feelings had piled up, broken through the wall, and destroyed her willpower for a time. She could barely remember finding the robot floating about the ruins of Sanctuary Hills, or the Minuteman Garvey holed up with the settlers in Concord.

Exhaustion was settling deep into her bones now, her head growing heavy as she hovered over the grimy table and stared at the cracks. When did she... start to _live_ again? Or _had_ she? Had she even _tried?_

She laid her arms onto the table and turned her face to the wall, blinking away the blurriness of sleep. The pain wasn't any less than it had been, a slow ache building up in her chest. Felt like she was holding her breath again, but she wasn't―it wasn't the same kind of pain. This wasn't grief. It was...

She'd saved Danse like Nate had saved _her._ Taken him away from what he'd known and tried to make a new life.

Long ago, she'd told herself that she loved Nate because he took her away from the Island and let her live again.

...This felt _different. **Much** different._

Jeanne closed her eyes and let out a downhearted sigh.


	12. memory:nate

Note: Am an idiot. This is established ages ago; don't let me edit sleepy. Minor edits

* * *

"It's no wonder your head hurts."

Danse lowered his palm from his eye, looking up at Johnson. Her face held a neutral expression, dark eyes glinting in the light of a lone lantern sitting on a coffee table within the ruined house. The words were the first she'd spoken to him since they'd departed from the Harbor, travelling along the road south into the Island.

He accepted that he'd made a mistake; the pain in his lower back was testament to his idiocy of having passed out in such an awkward position. Pouring himself into the X-01 the following morning had been even more painful, and the tight seal of the rubber against his sore muscles was probably going to exacerbate it further.

He hadn't made much headway with his thoughts, since he woke. Never _mind_ the straining of their relationship―he'd embarrassed himself. In an effort to relieve himself of the existential doubt he felt, he'd let himself fall from his normally reserved behavior. He'd also discussed matters of a personal nature with Johnson, to explain to her _why_ he felt the need to lose himself. It wasn't becoming of him to act in such a way, giving into his worries when he ought to have been on guard.

And there was Johnson's current behavior; her curious silence was marred only by this simple chiding. He'd thought―due to the unexpected hug, her tears, her telling him of what had happened with her husband―and his own revelation about Cutler―that they would be on even ground, but it didn't appear that was the case.

Her manner had been as pleasant as usual, that morning. Her eyes were reddened and smile strained, though. She must not have slept; this would be the third consecutive day she was without rest, and Danse felt ashamed that he'd caused her discomfort.

She was not _angry_ with him, not that he could tell. But the silence drew out between them.

His own fault. She'd indicated she was aware how difficult it was to show weakness; he recalled her telling him that she couldn't afford to lose. She'd lost once; he'd lost once. If anything, it brought the feeling home to him. They had more in common than he'd thought.

He was unsure, though, how he felt about himself. His nature, being a synth, who he had molded himself to be. Johnson was right in that he was stronger than he showed himself to be, reacting like he had. He wanted to trust that his memories were Real; that his friendship with Cutler was something that he'd done himself, even if he was the synth who made that friendship.

Somewhere inside of his own head he knew that his knowing he was a synth was what had caused him to possibly sabotage his rapport with Johnson. too. She'd said that she would fight to the end, with him―her mention of going down together―but he had no clue why. With everything that had happened on the Island and knowing that she'd pushed away others for being as... pushy, as he was being, he wouldn't blame her for ordering him away.

He debated on apologizing, but he recalled her words within the Vault. He felt the _need_ to apologize. If anything were to be repaired―but wasn't sure how to broach the subject without rehashing everything that had been gone over, before.

Danse replaced his helmet before he spoke to Johnson. "I realize the error I made," he said, evenly. "Trust me, I _am_ reaping the reward."

Johnson snorted, shaking her head at him and turning back to the house. A trapper up in the lighthouse was yelling, his voice eerily echoing in the Fog. She ignored the calls and continued searching containers, without a word.

Normally Danse would have questioned why she left the man shouting madly into incumbent weather. Spatters of rain rolled off of his helmet's visor as they scrounged through the house, his hair damp from the earlier removal. Given that his head was still aching, and that the man was little threat so long as he stayed inside the crumbling lighthouse, he wasn't inclined to press the matter.

"Johnson?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she replied, turning her head to look up at him from the ground, where she'd been sorting through the contents of a safe.

"I―" he cleared his throat. _Might as well plunge forward._ "About last night..."

"It's fine, Danse," she interrupted, turning back to the safe. "No harm done." Her voice was calm and pleasant. Much like before, when she'd put on the false cheer.

"My actions made it impossible for you to get proper sleep," he said, feeling ashamed. "And you were left to your lonesome, in my absence. That is unacceptable behavior of any companion, no matter the situation." Johnson tutted under her breath. He kept his eyes on her, watching her. "I would not like to be left alone in this place, myself," he continued, remorse lacing his voice.

She looked up at him again, this time with a smile. A _genuine_ smile. The sight caught him off-guard. "Don't worry, Danse. I lived."

He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to reply. The look on her face flustered him without his understanding why, necessarily―he blinked, then frowned at himself.

"I suppose that is the important part?" he asked, baffled at himself.

"Living another day is always important," Johnson cheered, opening the safe. "Beside that, I have more blackmail on you," she added, a faint twinkle of her eyes showing in the darkness as she gave him a sidelong glance.

She was laughing at him again. Her grin was aggravating, yes, but―it wasn't the same as before. This was similar to when she had spoken about Nate. As he had thought, as if real emotion had been evinced.

It was altogether confusing for him. Danse cleared his throat again and mustered what strength he felt he had left, as she turned back to the safe and rifled through the contents. "Is it so important to have blackmail on me?" he asked, trying to sound disapproving.

"You're funny, you know," she said, pocketing a watch and turning a fork over in her hand before tossing it to the floor. "I think you're more put out by _yourself_ than you are about everything else. You have this air of―" she dropped something, quickly shaking her hand, then laid it onto her knee as she leaned forward. "You can't fail. Just like me."

Danse frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean, Johnson."

"Well," she said, moving one hand onto the door of the safe, "I've never seen you drunk, before." She closed the door slowly. "But you haven't mentioned anything about being a synth today. Since you were so upset about it, I wonder why _that_ is."

He stared down at her as she turned to face him, pushing herself up from the debris-riddled floor. He sighed, painfully, aware that she had deftly changed the subject. He ignored the connotation and answered her as well he could.

"I embarrassed myself," he said. "I don't feel the need to go through that, _again."_

"No," Johnson said, chuckling under her breath. "You didn't embarrass yourself."

"I fail to see how―"

Johnson held up a finger to stop him from speaking―he was even more confused, now. "You think you've made a mistake. I think it was a good thing to clear the air. You know about me, and I know about you. We're even."

He let that sink in, trying to grasp what she was going on about. "It does not change the fact that I―"

"Danse," Johnson said. She put her hands on her hips and kept her eyes on his visor. "We talked about this. Remember?"

He did. She was referring to apologies, again. He sobered himself as well he could with an aching head and nodded. "You are offering a chance to look the other way," he answered, flatly.

"If that's how you want to see it." Johnson unhooked her rifle from her back and checked the breech. "We're even. If one of us tips the scale now, we'll just go right back to where we were―confused and stressed and unsure."

He understood. She was distancing herself from the mess that had come of his pushing her to confront her false nature, and asking politely that he back off. He should have expected this much from her display of emotion concerning her husband―absolutely something she would not have shared, and absolutely something he should not have put her in a position _to_ share.

"And if one of us decides that it is important to, as you say, tip the scale?" he asked, hopeful to clarify the new and somewhat unsettling situation.

She lifted the rifle, aiming up and into the murky Fog through the ruined wall of the house, pausing a moment before answering. "Then we should do so in a more appropriate place, like you said before. This isn't conducive to our mission on the Island."

That was... acceptable. Danse nodded, slowly. "A truce, then?"

Johnson's mouth twitched behind the scope. She lowered the rifle but didn't look at him. "Yes."

"Before we agree to this, may I ask you something? And you will answer honestly?"

Her head turned sharply. "Must you?" she responded, her words mildly sore. He didn't answer her; she knew exactly what he expected. Johnson made an inaudible noise, and looked away. "Alright, Danse. Ask."

"The rabbit in your story became Real," he said, trying to force his thoughts away from confusion. "That much I can gather. But what happened to him, once he became Real?"

She blinked, staring out into the Fog. After a moment of silence, she opened her mouth and said, "He went home with the other rabbits." She turned to him, looking curiously up at him.

"Very well," he agreed. "We will keep a truce." He turned and moved away from her, back through the house. "Let's go evict trapper King Lear from his throne."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the corner of her mouth jerk up and down, before she followed him toward the lighthouse.

* * *

Jeanne hummed nervously as they left the lighthouse. She'd kept the song fresh in her mind the whole way down the coast and was hopeful that it would last her the whole trip back―

She couldn't stop some of her thoughts from coming to the surface. Thoughts she didn't want to, nor did she _like_ to, address, thoughts that kept her tongue pinched firmly between her front teeth and thoughts that made her almost too nervous to keep up her facade.

Trite metaphors ran through her head, almost taunting her. She couldn't make heads or tails of anything―it felt so confusing, the rush of heat to her face and nigh-unbearable pain in her chest. Such pressing emotion made her feel like a teenager again, trying to fight against her own feelings and push back the pain of dealing with her mother―

Except she didn't really remember being a teenager. She remembered bits and pieces, but she'd forced the memories down so deep they were struggling to rise to the surface. It was just as well.

Jeanne closed her eyes briefly and swallowed hard, hoping Danse wouldn't notice her distress. She couldn't afford to―to have a moment on the road, out in the open, after what she'd said about the truce.

Pushed him away, too. After the mess the night before, and after she'd opened up to him... after realizing like she had, that something _else_ was going on―it would be downright ridiculous to open up to him.

She _needed_ the truce between them. She needed him to be himself, to put up his own wall. Even if she could barely hang onto the edge she would find the strength to keep herself away from the thoughts that pressed so firmly into her mind.

 _Dieu,_ but the impressions they left behind―Jeanne hid a groan that wanted to escape her throat. Half of her trouble was the guilty nagging thought telling her she was an utterly despicable person for never loving Nate like she hadn't. It wasn't like she hadn't tried! Nate was such a good man, and she'd tried to make things right after so many years of being married...

And Shaun, she'd _never_ forget that Nate gave her Shaun, the only family she'd really ever had, the only thing she had to tie her to the world like he was a lead weight and she was some kind of helium-filled balloon―

Jeanne gulped a breath and raised her rifle from her hip, pretending she was startled by something in the Fog. Her mind was everywhere, right now. She couldn't keep herself straight enough to concentrate―

Danse reacted accordingly which made her feel _worse,_ if that was at all possible. She had nothing but respect for him, even if he thought he'd made an ass of himself―even if he was out of sorts because he had no idea how to be himself, anymore. He hadn't, really, it was all on her, _of course._

And the worst of _that_ was that she wanted to share her thoughts with him. She wanted to admit to him that she was as confused as he'd seemed to be, that she didn't know what to do with herself―but she couldn't. Too many years of training in her mother's home, too many rebuttals and too many times she'd shoved her own feelings down―

Too much emotion for her to deal with all at once. Jeanne loosed the breath and tried to hum again, but her throat was clogged. She settled on making a thoughtful noise.

"What do you need?" Danse asked, curiously.

She closed her eyes quickly, pulling herself together enough to answer. "Just thinking, is all," she managed, her voice the happy fake standard she was so used to. She grimaced inside.

"Very well," he replied, moving forward and past her on the road.

Jeanne opened her eyes a crack and watched the armor walking away from her, and crushed a whimper starting in her chest.

 _Dieu, it was torture―_

* * *

She inhaled with a coarse yelp, her breath catching on fluid inside of her lungs. She opened her eyes, her head spinning and eyes unfocused. What'd happened?

Explosions of dust and fire rose up around her, bullets striking the dirt, her legs caught on an aster bush and her arms covered with oozing scrapes. A ringing noise in her head echoed as she blinked away the fuzziness, coughing up blood and mucus, globs of black splattering over her jumpsuit.

"Johnson!" Paladin Danse shouted, his voice overpowering the sounds of combat and striking her deep in her heart. She was injured―

She put a hand to the dirt and pushed upward, arms wobbling as she collapsed back onto the ground. She'd been shot. Someone had shot her. There was no pain? She made a pitiful noise, gurgling a little as her lungs filled up with blood. There should be pain―

She couldn't _breathe_ ―blood was filling up her lungs―

"Johnson!" Danse said, suddenly a whole lot closer to her. "Goddammit―"

She tried to speak, but all that came out was a terrible gurgling noise. There was a hole in her chest. Frothy bubbles were forming in the blood, that was a bad sign. But she couldn't feel the pain.

 _I'm in shock._ That was bad, she'd been in shock before, she knew what it meant―

Danse's hand came around the side of her head and―she flinched, disoriented still. He held her down with one hand and injected a stimpak into her shoulder. "Calm down, Johnson," he ordered her. Her face burned, at her unintentional reaction.

She could feel the stimpak working. A miracle chem, she thought, as her blurred vision slowly righted itself. Oh, there was the pain, finally―

 _Merde!_ The pain!

Jeanne curled in on herself, groaning and making all manner of noise. It was so _intense!_ She barely remembered the pain when she'd given birth, but she would have gladly traded that for this, if only to breathe again―

Danse's hand moved to her head, the thick rubber of his gloves warm against her scalp. His other hand moved to her eye, pulling the lid up and staring at her pupil―checking her for concussion, using the light on his helmet. Jeanne shivered. Even with a brush fire that burned very close to her, she felt cold.

"F-fine?" she managed, spitting up more black blood as her lungs healed. _Dieu,_ but the after effects were going to make her wish she was _dead―_

"You'll live," Danse said, sounding half-worried and half-angry. She could see his helmet hovering over her, the only light beyond his lamp the explosions still going on in the distance. He held up another stimpak, and this time she felt the sharp sting of the needle as it entered her shoulder.

 _"Nnnnn,"_ she sounded, pushing herself up into a sitting position. The arm held this time, and she drew her legs out of the bush as she examined her chest. A massive hole in her jumpsuit, covered with blood and the side torn open with the path of the injury. She should have expected―more resistance, really―she was stronger than this―

Jeanne looked up at Danse, blinking rapidly, and saw him resume normal combat stance, firing over their heads into the darkness beyond his lamp. She couldn't blink away all of the blurriness, but she pulled her rifle and aimed.

She didn't remember what they'd been doing before she was shot. She didn't even remember _being_ shot. But the enemy was in front of them―she brought the sight to her eye, shooting until she needed to reload.

Super Mutants? She remembered, now. They had been on the road toward the Harbor. Jeanne tried to stand, but her legs felt weak, wobbling under her. She leaned herself onto a tree and blinked as she fed a clip into her weapon. Danse was yelling at the mutants, angrily.

A building loomed in the Fog. She vaguely recalled it, another hotel or something. Jeanne rubbed her eyes with one hand, then winced as she smeared blood all over her eyebrows.

"Godless heathens!" Danse was saying, as she lifted the rifle again.

Her arms lowered. The rifle fell from her hands, clattering onto the rocks, as she slid down the tree and crumpled to the ground. She was so exhausted. Could barely stay awake―

Hadn't slept for _ages._

She closed her eyes.


	13. memory:amours de jeanne

Note: I knew I'd get him in there, somehow. Sorry about the wait. (minor edit. oops)

* * *

The mutants were heavily armed. No more than they were able to handle, however―

Danse pressed the attack, destroying several in the court while being attacked from the roof. Once he'd dealt with the visible threat below, he ducked under the archway and reloaded, his hands unconsciously feeding the ECP into his rifle as his eyes searched the surrounding undergrowth for signs of Johnson.

She'd gone quiet after an initial assault of bullets across the court, moving back from the road and into the rocks and brush. He'd assumed she was attempting to gain ground on the mutants, but she hadn't made further attempt to engage. Given the massive injury she'd taken from the mutant on the roof and that she'd stopped firing on the enemy, he was extremely worried.

In combat, injuries were unavoidable. In the Brotherhood, he would have had several Knights and Scribes to fight back against the mutants. Here... it was only the two of them. He'd given her as many stimpaks as he had available, but―he wasn't sure if her injury was that grievous, to disable her―or even―

Even stimpaks couldn't cure _everything._

Danse felt his hands shake, and stopped himself. Regardless of their situation, he must secure the area before applying more aid. He strengthened himself against the thoughts.

Striding across the archway into the hotel, he swept the lower level of the hotel. God, the bastards had dug themselves into the place like mole rats―every time he turned around, another hound, another one of the ugly things was flinging itself at him.

Couldn't help but to grin and grit his teeth and lay into the mutants, spending his anger on them with the red glare of lasers and spoken curses. This was the part of the job he _loved._

Once he'd made his way up onto the roof―pushing through the hotel and out onto the mansard was not difficult, even if he was alone―he stormed the mutant atop the rickety watch tower at the edge.

 _"Die, puny human!"_ it yelled, unloading the rifle it held into his power armor as it edged across a creaking wooden bridge. He grunted with the impact, returning fire. The weapon that the mutant had was high-powered―no wonder it'd taken Johnson down like it had.

Danse eyed the supports of the bridge, firing on the mutant while thinking quickly. It should work―

With heavy feet he moved into a better position and kicked at a post, splintering the wood. Danse followed the action with a spray across the mutant above him. The thing moved forward, standing on the edge of the bridge and firing down at him, shouting in pain as the lasers grazed it. Bullets ricocheted off of Danse's helmet, deflected away from the vulnerable neck area into the ratty shingles of the mansard and casting out debris.

He adjusted his rifle angle and fired again, kicking at the post a second time―the wood split, and the combined weakness with the weight of the mutant atop the damp boards of the bridge caused it to wobble uncontrollably.

He kept firing on the mutant, watching the wood sag and break apart while moving backward and away from the bridge. The mutant moved backward as well, confused by the motion, unintentionally stepping off the edge of the bridge and tumbling onto the slope of the roof.

Danse rushed it as it landed, slamming it off of the roof and downward into the court. The Mutant landed on the fountain back-first, making all manner of hateful noises, his power armor coming down on top of it.

Radiation-weakened stone crumbled under their combined weight, shards flying outward from under the gnarled flesh of the mutant and the resulting dust clouding the air. Danse shunted off of the abomination with a slide, his power armor pulled by gravity onto the bricked driveway. He stumbled and caught himself, rising from the ground and aiming his rifle to finish off the mutant.

It wasn't moving, anymore. A piece of broken stone was jutting from the thing's flesh left of its chest, as it laid broken and bloody atop the fountain. Danse lowered the rifle, then looked sharply to the rocks.

 _Johnson―_

* * *

He found her lying in a heap under a tree, her rifle on the ground. Danse put away his rifle, retrieved hers and put it into her pack, then eyed her injury again.

His mouth had gone dry, seeing her nearly lifeless under the sparing branches of the pine tree, covered in spatters of blood and jumpsuit torn along the side of her ribcage. No blood was seeping from the wound, but coagulated black globs had begun to form. She was breathing raggedly, wet crackles coming from her loosely-open mouth.

His stimpaks had healed up enough to cover over the wound. The bullet had gone through her body and exited her back―after a moment of hesitation, he knelt and placed a hand onto her shoulder, turning her over. Yes, exit wound had healed. He felt along her side carefully, knowing her ribs in the path of the bullet would be broken. Bone that couldn't heal, when shattered inside the body and a stimpak was applied, might become an issue. She needed a real doctor, surgery to repair the damage.

As to why she was unconscious... with her lack of rest and the severity of the injury, he couldn't fault her for passing out. He felt miserable, again. Pain sounded across his forehead again, the leftovers of his hangover. Damn him for being so foolish―

Danse glanced around the area. Travelling back through the Fog with Johnson incapacitated in such a way, would not be pleasant. He couldn't guarantee that she would be safe, even if he had to carry her the whole way.

He would, of course. There was no question of that.

The rain began to pick up, coming in droves rather than the light patter earlier experienced. He breathed out, trying to focus himself. Bad weather would only make the already-arduous task more difficult.

A slight beeping noise, nearly hidden by the wind and rain, caught his attention. He turned his head down, looking to Johnson. The Pip-Boy screen was flickering, a bright green light in the darkness. Danse reached down and manipulated her arm, pulling the device upward and adjusting himself awkwardly to look at the screen.

Johnson's notes were displayed across it. She'd written about the lighthouse, noting that they were returning to the Harbor to let the Dalton woman know about their success. There was a hefty amount of suspicion for the old Harborwoman in her writing, revolving around the holotape that they'd recovered. He understood that; he himself had wondered the same.

Other notes had been logged, dated the night before―Danse swallowed, trying to remove the dryness in his throat, and moved his thumb to scroll through her files.

His thumb suddenly stopped, frozen in place on the knob, and he slowly lowered her arm. His name had appeared on the screen, and more than once. He wasn't sure why―the entries were marked by date but other than his name proceeding them, beginning upon the day of their arrival in Far Harbor, there was nothing to tell him what they might contain.

He looked up at the road, through the rain. The spatter on his visor made it difficult to see; he removed his helmet and placed it to the side, rubbing his eyes with one hand. There were more pressing issues to concentrate on, right now. _Worry about that, later._

Johnson made an alarming spluttering noise. Danse turned back to her, noticing the issue―what blood had flooded into her lungs was being expectorated. He stared at Johnson for a moment, watching the blood dribbling from her mouth, then moved her to a sitting position against the tree. He supported her head with one hand, securing his fingers on her ponytail, as she unconsciously spat up blobs of blood and mucus.

Her Pip-Boy made another noise. Danse looked to her arm and focused on the screen, trying to comprehend the sudden curl of pain in his stomach. It was coupled with another feeling; one he was more than aware the origins of, and one that he would have felt regardless.

Disappointment in himself, in his actions. He should have kept his team out of danger, in the Commonwealth, and he was unable to keep Johnson similarly safe on the Island―the doubt he'd expressed in himself and his ability to command was pressing.

The other pain was new. He couldn't quite grasp what it meant. It felt very much like the concern he'd expressed for Johnson when she was injured by her misfire, causing him embarrassment.

He breathed out, calming himself. The Pip-Boy was registering movement, showing something in the woods coming closer to them. Danse watched the movement as it came closer, tracked by the Pip-Boy's biometric sensors, until it was nearly upon them.

He heard footsteps. The last thing the two of them needed was a Trapper to exacerbate the situation―

Danse lowered Johnson to the ground swiftly but carefully and pulled his rifle from his back, aiming on the person.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

* * *

"Warned ya, didn't I?" the old man was saying, as Danse carried Johnson along the cracked asphalt back toward the Harbor.

"I don't recall," he replied, curtly. Johnson was probably right not to hire the disagreeable old guide. Being as rude as he was, Danse now understood her reluctance. The man was as snappish as they came, and smelled like he'd bathed in alcohol.

"The Fog ain't like nothin' you've seen in the Commonwealth." Longfellow glanced back at him, looking smug. "Mainlanders think a dose of Rad-Away's all you need."

"Rad-Away doesn't cure a bullet through the lung," Danse said, almost snapping. He bit the inside of his mouth, annoyed at the man. Johnson was still unconscious, but her breathing had evened out and she'd stopped coughing up blood.

"Hear you're with some soldier group." Longfellow snorted, ambling along the road. "Brotherhood of Steel. Didn't teach you how to doctor?"

"Medicine isn't exactly my _specialty,"_ Danse muttered, in a dark tone. "I am―was a Paladin. Not a Scribe."

"Rescuin' damsels in distress sure as hell ain't mine," the old man answered, bitterly, eyes sweeping across the Fog.

Danse was quiet, following behind the man. The ache in his forehead had lessened, once he'd explained that he required a guide back through the Fog. Having the escort brought his confidence in their situation back to normal levels, even if the smell of booze wafting off the man made his stomach roil.

His power armor hissed loudly in the quiet of the Fog, leg pieces scraping together where the metal had been dented by combat. He made a mental note to get it repaired as soon as possible, though where he might do so on the Island was beyond him.

"Never had much use for power armor. Too damn noisy to go huntin' in." The old guide sounded disdainful of the thought. He didn't bother looking back, keeping a vigil on their surroundings.

Danse snapped his mouth shut, stilling the words that rose in his throat. He reminded himself that if the man abandoned the two of them in the Fog, there wasn't much chance that he could successfully navigate back to the Harbor on his own. Much _less_ without further injury to Johnson or himself.

Her Pip-Boy began to crackle, coupled with the Geiger counter on his armor. The noise was strangely loud.

"Radiation, damn. That's trouble we don't need," Longfellow said, picking up his pace. "Let's get outta here. Don't fancy my hair fallin' out faster than it already is."

"Agreed," Danse replied, moving faster to keep up with him. For as old as he appeared, Longfellow still kept a very brisk pace. It was respectable; the man's energy level was undoubted how he'd managed to stay alive for so long, on the Island.

They traveled in near-silence for a time, only marred by a few Trappers jumping out of the Fog at them. Danse turned his back to the combat―as much as it jarred his senses to do so―covering Johnson as best he could while the guide shot on and killed the enemy. Bullets plinked off of his armor, striking trees and rocks around them. One embedded itself into a nearby vehicle, forcing him to move away as quickly as he possibly could before the nuclear power source exploded. Johnson's head lolled on her shoulders―his movement was not gentle by any meaning of the word―and Danse moved a hand to pin her to his shoulder, frowning deeply.

"Are you sure this is the safest route back to the Harbor?" he asked Longfellow, when the dust of combat had settled.

"Quit your worryin', metal man. We'll be fine." The old man reloaded his rifle, a bemused smile across his face. "I was born an' raised here. I know this island front to back. I know what's in the Fog and how to deal with it." He nodded to Johnson, lifting his rifle barrel to the sky. "That one, she ain't lookin' so fresh."

It was true that Johnson's color had gone pallid, but Danse was not sure if that was her injured condition or the Fog causing the effect. He removed his hand from her ear and watched her head roll limply to the side. "No," he agreed, setting his mouth. Another twist of pain flared inside his stomach, making him uneasy.

"Best we keep movin' then," Longfellow said, his tone somewhat softened compared to his previous attitude. "I'm done leadin' people to their deaths in the Fog."

Danse glanced sharply at the man, but he'd turned away before he could catch his eye. He was right, though. They needed to get back to the Harbor as quickly as possible.

Longfellow moved away, into the Fog, and Danse followed behind dutifully.

* * *

Once they'd reached the Harbor, the old guide disappeared down the pier. Danse carried Johnson to the doctor and explained her wounds, standing aside to watch him work.

His initial assessment of broken ribs had been accurate; he didn't look away as the doctor removed shards of bone and set the remainder, operating quickly. "Guess it's a good thing she's already out for the count," he said, somewhat cheerfully. "Saves us the anesthesia."

Danse fixed him with a scathing look, before returning his gaze to Johnson. Without her armor Johnson was frail in appearance, skin pulled taut over her a slender body and little fat to round out her frame. He was absolutely certain that no one had seen her in this state, before him. She wouldn't have tolerated it, herself.

"That's as much as I can do," the doctor said, finally, and cleared up his work space. "The rest is... well..." He shot Danse a look, then respectfully backed away from them.

Dusk had fallen in the few hours it had taken he and the old guide to arrive at the Harbor. By the time the operation was completed, the merchants had gone to their respective beds and the open-air surgery was nearly empty but for a lone patient sleeping on another bed in the corner. The man muttered occasional phrases, writhing on the mattress, but eventually went still. Silence reigned over the Harbor, the enormity of it eerie among the dim lamps and dank air.

Danse stood guard over Johnson. He did not intend to leave her side again. Many years of running operations in the wastes had taught him how to eschew sleep just as they'd both had to when they arrived on the Island. She was peaceful in the bed, breathing much easier and on her right side so as not to place pressure on her injured side.

He could see an old scar along her arm, puckered but pale skin raised slightly from just below her elbow to her bicep. Briefly, he wondered the cause of it, but discarded the thought as his eyes moved onto the bandages that swathed her side.

She hadn't woken, yet, and he was still mildly concerned that she had pushed herself too far―between the stress of their mission, surviving in the wasteland, his disconsolate actions and her own emotional stress, it was certain that was the case.

Shortly before the Super Mutant attack at the hotel, and after the truce was declared, she had been humming again. It was an interesting song; not one meant to be vocalized in that way, he thought, from the sound of it. She'd said she recalled it from childhood. The way she'd spoken about it, then, he understood it was a _good_ memory, once that she didn't have to hide through insincerity.

But when she'd hummed it, shortly before she was shot, she'd sounded... _anxious._ She'd given the song an emotional element that he'd not heard from her, yet. Like a child clinging to a stuffed animal, as if she needed the comforting feel of the sound.

He found himself playing the song in his head, trying to get the feel for it. Instinctively, his throat began to vibrate with the sound, following along the tones in an off-key way. He'd never been the musical type, really.

A small sound behind him caught his ear, stopping him in the exercise. Danse turned his head, looking down on Johnson.

She was crying in her sleep, small whimpers and a low-toned whine coming from her. Her left hand was grabbing at the mattress, aimlessly, tears falling onto the dirty canvas in her distress.

Danse felt the knot in his stomach tighten, and turned away, watching the waves cresting over the small islands past the boards of the pier. The uncomfortable feeling rose to his chest, bringing a flush of blood up into his ears.

Whatever the reason was for it... he wasn't sure. It was hard to breathe, as if his heart had suddenly leaped into his mouth and was constricting his airway.

And he'd made Johnson cry, again. Completely unintentionally.

He suspected this new feeling would prove _more_ than he could handle.


	14. memory:pre-war

Note: You got it, danicasnow. Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

Jeanne opened her eyes, stretching her arms above her on the bed. The sun was shining harshly through the window into her eyes. She felt uncomfortably warm, bathed in the rays. She blinked at the brightness, turning her head to the side, and pushed herself up from the comforter.

She'd passed out on top of the bed in her day clothes, worn out to the brink of exhaustion from the late night with Shaun and all the house work she'd been trying to keep up with. Nate being home from the front wasn't enough to help the chaos that had come with the birth of their son.

How could such a tiny thing make everything so much harder?

Jeanne scratched her collarbone and frowned, then looked down at her chest. There was a pain in her side, front to back and slightly under her breast. She touched the area gently, frowning. That was new. An ache inside her ribs and a feeling like it was hard to breathe―

She moved from the bed, running her hand along the wall as she moved to the closet, pulling out a change of clothing. Shaun was making cooing noises from his room, happy baby sounds. She ducked into the bathroom and washed her face before she went to him.

"Hey, buddy," she said, reaching into the crib and tickling his stomach. "How's it going?"

Shaun's black eyes stared up at her, his mouth curling up into a smile and face lighting up at her appearance. He gurgled out a sound at her and she smiled back, moving him from the crib to the kitchen.

The kitchen counters were covered with the leftovers of last night's meal, bowls and plates and cups strewn about. Jeanne cleared up and prepared a bottle with one hand. She dropped into a dining chair and fed Shaun, turning her eyes toward the couch.

Nate was passed out on the cushions, one arm trailing off of the side, face jammed into a pillow. The smile on her face dropped, along with her eyes.

"You were really hungry, huh," she whispered to Shaun. Shaun's tiny brown hands grasped at the bottle, idly plucking at the glass. His eyes were riveted to her face, staring intently at her as she fed him.

Jeanne watched him, the smile returning to her cheeks, amazed―she'd _made_ that. Her very own baby, the only blood relative she knew, skinny arms and legs squirming on her lap as she held him. The way Shaun grabbed at things, his face when he managed to hold onto them, how he marveled at the world. It _was_ amazing.

She glanced up at Nate again, hearing him cough. He shifted on the couch, groaning. She saw him rubbing his forehead, and watched him sit up. His back was slumped against the back of the couch, feet flat on the floor. He rubbed his leg and grimaced.

They'd been fighting, the night before. Everything going on―everything being so hectic and having no free time to themselves―it'd been especially difficult the last week. With this new _person_ they'd introduced to their lives, and coupled with the strain of the last year...

Jeanne wished things could could back to how they used to be. She kept her gaze on Nate, feeling her heart sinking slowly inside of her chest.

Nate looked over at her, running a hand over his eyes, and stood. Without a word to her, he slowly limped back into the house. After a moment she heard the shower going.

She knew he was perfectly happy with Shaun; he'd been more excited about having a child than _she_ had. Her anxiety about being a good parent, about not knowing who her biological family was, about... about being tied to Nate by more than a legal paper. All of it kept her from feeling the joy that she thought she should.

Her chest hurt, her heart hitting bottom. She made a face and adjusted herself in the chair, hearing Shaun's protest when she removed the empty bottle from his grip. "You can't eat air," she chided, chuckling at him. Shaun made a face and huffed a little, but seemed content when she pressed him to her chest and burped him.

Nate came back into the room, moving into the kitchen and grabbing a Nuka-Cola out of the fridge. He uncapped it, staring into the fridge, then shut the door loudly. Shaun jumped at the noise and Jeanne sighed under her breath.

"I'm going out," he announced, after finishing the drink. "Going to the electronics place, buy that robot we talked about."

Her head jerked up, a pleasant but confused smile on her face. "I thought we said―"

"Nothing will get better if we don't _do_ something about it, Jeanne," he said, pointedly, and turned to stare at her. "You can barely keep up with the house, and―" His hand tightened on the empty bottle, his face annoyed. "And I can't get around easy, not on this leg."

Jeanne looked down, patting Shaun's back. He was right about his leg, but―she didn't want to bring that issue up, _again._ Nate's war injury had made him grumpier than usual, since Shaun was born. He couldn't work, he could barely limp around the house... he couldn't even take care of Shaun, very well―they were relying on charity. There was no other option, not until Shaun was older and she could find work―

"If we get the robot, it can do half the work. And we can focus on more important things," he added, bitterly, thumping the bottle onto the counter. "Like how you don't seem to want to be _married,_ anymore."

"That wasn't what I said," she protested, lowly.

"Sure as hell sounded like it," he replied, awkwardly walking across the room and grabbing his car keys. He leaned against the door frame for a long moment, staring at the umbrella stand and his cane sitting inside of it.

She held her breath, watching him from the corner of her eyes. Nate hated using the cane. She didn't fault him for that. The issue only got worse as time went on, as he realized he couldn't move around like he used to―

Nate pushed himself away from the door, roughly, snapping up the cane from the stand and gripping it tightly. "We'll talk when I get back," he said, jerking the door open with a shudder and leaving the house. He slammed the door behind him, and she breathed out in a rush.

Shaun made a weak cry, startled by the door. Jeanne rubbed his back and stared at the wall blankly, soothing him. After a while, she could feel him go limp against her shoulder. Shaun's eyes were closed, eyelashes touching his soft cheeks.

Jeanne felt her chest vibrating in a hum. The words came out shakily, her voice trembling as she sang the song to Shaun. She carefully carried him back into his bedroom and laid him into his crib, the song fading in her throat. She lowered herself into the nearby chair and put her face in her hands, hiding the tears that spilled.

Everything had been going so well, for such a long time... but now... now, it was like a nightmare that she couldn't wake herself up from.

Jeanne closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, she was confused. Everything was dark. It was deathly quiet, and she was hurting―

Jeanne blinked away tears, brought on by her―nightmare?―no, it was a memory. Moving slightly on the mattress, she could feel pain shoot up her side into her shoulder. Her chest had been bandaged. She remembered being shot, and passing out.

But how had―where were they?―she looked up to the hulking power armor beside her, a shadow in the dark that loomed over her. "Danse," she said, barely more than a whisper.

He immediately turned, his hands tightening on his laser rifle. His face was full of worry, what she could see in the nearly total darkness. "Johnson," he said, sounding extremely relieved.

Jeanne laid on the mattress without moving, staring up at Danse. She wiped at her face, removing the tears that had stubbornly plastered themselves to her skin. "Where are we," she asked, pushing herself up awkwardly.

"The Harbor," he answered. "Your injury required surgery. We were lucky that the old guide from the bar showed up." He glanced down at her side, and cleared his throat. "I am glad to see that you've awakened."

"Hmm," she answered, poking at her bandages. After a moment's inspection, she unwound the gauze. The dressing had nothing underneath it beyond a mass of stitched skin. Jeanne made a face at the sight.

Danse made a noise and turned away. Jeanne poked at her side for a few minutes, assessing her recovery, then searched for her jumpsuit. She wiggled her fingers through the hole in the side and looked up at Danse. He was still turned away, waiting for her to get dressed.

A tiny smile flickered across her face. Danse must have carried her the whole way, through the Fog. She didn't think the grumpy old guide would have offered; she knew that Danse would have done that for her, regardless of the truce.

She'd lost consciousness and _had_ to be carried, though. Her smile faltered. She didn't like that thought. All the stress of the last few days had piled up on her, made her distracted―or maybe that was because of something else, like the nagging pangs of pain in her chest whenever she thought about Danse.

 _Quand on parle du loup..._ Jeanne felt the pressure building inside of her. She really _couldn't_ think about him without that weird feeling popping up. She felt like she was going mad, again, just like the moment before she was shot―

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Put her jumpsuit back to rights and adjusted her gloves, then took her hair down and combed through it with one hand, staring into the darkness. This was no different than any other time she'd had to suppress her feelings. She...

Danse's armor made a loud clanking noise in the darkened room. A spike of something indescribable shot through her chest down into her stomach and Jeanne jammed her eyes shut. _Dieu,_ even the fact that he was standing guard over her was enough to―

She rubbed her eyes and opened them, forcing herself to smile at Danse. "How long was I out?" she asked Danse.

"Approximately 12 hours," he answered, turning his head to her. "You passed out before the super mutants were eradicated, and the journey back to the Harbor was not easy."

"No," she agreed, "I wouldn't think so."

Danse was watching her out of the corner of his eye, an odd look on his face. Jeanne returned the look with her best fake smile, trying not to let the cracks in her armor show. Her heart sped up and her hands started to shake, so she put them together behind her back and stared back at him without looking away.

They both stood there, watching each other, for a long time. She could feel the atmosphere thickening around them―maybe that was the Island, though, she'd felt that pressure even way back before the War, before Nate. Seemed like it never let up, never went away, and when she'd finally left the place for Boston she could've sworn she felt it lift like an enormous hand had been squeezing her tightly.

Danse opened his mouth and closed it, then nodded at her. "Whenever you're ready, Johnson," he said, giving her a small smile.

Jeanne felt the blood flushing under her cheeks. She put her head down, moving past Danse. Walked out to the pier and stared at the water, trying to hide how flustered she'd become.

Thought about Nate, again. The memories brought up all sorts of bad feeling. What she'd recalled, in her dazed state―Nate and she had fought about the robot. She'd hated the idea right off the bat, mostly because of Miss Nou. There was the money issue, how they really couldn't afford it with all the other bills, and Nate's disability payments were barely enough to cover their food costs―but she'd reacted very badly to the idea of having a Mister Handy floating about the house and following her.

Nate knew how she felt. He and Jack had roamed the Island, Jeanne tagging along behind with the Miss Nanny her mother used to enforce her good behavior. The only time he'd ever seen her cry was when she'd shaken the damn thing and hid out in Cromwell Cove.

He must have felt useless, too. Having to admit that he really couldn't keep up with Shaun, the son he'd been looking forward to more than she had. Because he'd let himself be talked into joining the army with Jack, because... because he was stuck with her, because he'd promised to help.

She'd never loved him. She'd never known _how_ to love him. Nate was like a brother to her. Just like Jack, in the same adopted sense. It was impossible to see him as anything _but_ that, impossible to feel any sort of... romantic thought, to _want_ to be married to him.

Her eyes swept along the pier, staring out at the ocean and hearing the soft sloshing of water against rocks. It'd taken Nate two years to convince her, after they'd gotten married. Months of him attempting to get close to her. He knew she didn't love him, he had to know. She didn't know how he'd felt about her. Nate was quiet. Stubborn and seemingly as much at home with being alone as he'd enjoyed company.

Jeanne moved out to the edge of the pier and leaned on a post, looking at the water below. She could hear Danse following her, and turned her head slightly. "Danse," she said, quietly.

He moved forward, coming abreast of her and considering the shoreline as well. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice trying to sound neutral. There was an undertone to it that she could hear, something sounding... nervous? Less confident, maybe.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't think I would survive without you here."

Danse cleared his throat loudly in the quiet air. "You're welcome."

"If we go back to Acadia," she started, looking back to the water, "I can't promise that I won't... act the same."

"It is an unsettling place," Danse said.

"Yes," she agreed, breathing out the word. Her heart had stopped hammering in her chest, but the strange ache was still there.

She wasn't a stupid person. She knew what was going on with her, all the pain that she felt, all the heady emotion that being near Danse was bringing.

 _"And if one of us decides that it is important to, as you say, tip the scale?"_ Danse himself knew there might be a need to press their issues, again. But she didn't know _what_ to do. She didn't want to feel it, much less―and to even mention something like that would make for an impossible conversation, especially after the truce―

"Let's go talk to Cassie Dalton," she said, turning away from Danse. "Finish up the business here, and see where it takes us."

"Very well." Danse moved along behind her, his armor still making a grating noise.

"And then maybe we'll find you some place to fix your power armor," she added, focusing herself on walking down the pier.

"Agreed."

* * *

Johnson was working on the Fog condensers in Dalton Farm with one of the settlers, later in the day. She'd rigged up a power armor station on the hill overlooking the water, inside of an open shelter. When the provisioner arrived with more resources, they would close in the walls and build more houses for inevitable newcomers to sleep in.

For now, they were roughing it. Danse was working on reforming the dents in his power armor, caused by jumping off the roof of the hotel. The situation wasn't ideal. The sooner he finished repairing his armor, the better he would feel about being in the open.

Easier said than done, however. He kept an eye on the area just beyond the Fog as he attempted to hammer out the deformation, catching Johnson in his periphery. She'd let down her hair, after waking up, and hadn't replaced the ponytail. Danse couldn't recall having seen her with her hair down, and the sight was distracting for the novelty alone.

He still felt the knot in his stomach. It had not unwound, even though she'd awakened in the Harbor clinic and he was thankful that her injury was not as terrible as it appeared. Johnson was acting the same as she had, as well, so he knew that she was not affected badly either way.

Danse glanced over at the condensers again, picking out her wiry form standing with two other settlers around the device. She flipped a strand of hair out of her face and looked back at him.

He turned his eyes away quickly, back to the armor. His stomach flopped, again. He focused on the armor plating and felt his mouth thinning into a line. He was right, again. The feeling _was_ trouble. More than he could imagine, too.

He was a synth. Even trying to imagine that he could express feelings like he was having, for a human being... it made his chest wrench painfully. That he'd dared to think of that happening, that he might be able to find―he didn't dare finish the thought. Johnson deserved better than a synth like himself, even if she was a deceitful person.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed out. Willed the pain in his stomach to abate. Willed his man-made heart to stop thrashing about in his chest. Willed his non-human mind to calm and remember itself.

He opened his eyes and saw Johnson standing in front of him.

His heart would not stop. It could not.

Danse muffled the sigh he gave.


	15. memory:control

Note: Still on hiatus, but finished editing this chapter. I'll be back as soon as I am able. (Published 2-17-17) _oops, fixed spelling errors._

P.S. Note: Edited on 04-02-17 with minor content.

* * *

Danse was staring at her, an awkward expression spreading across his face. Jeanne pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, turning to look at his power armor. She didn't trust her face to behave, not entirely.

Her eye twitched. That was why she'd left her hair down. As much practice as she'd had pretending everything was okay... and she could still barely keep herself together... every little bit helped.

Danse had turned, looking away from her, and begun hammering at the leg piece again. The strange look on his face remained, but he didn't speak to her. Jeanne turned her attention back to him, wondering what was the cause.

She watched him for a moment, tucking her arms behind her back. After their discussion on the pier... and after she'd managed to control herself, they'd traveled out to the farm. Danse was not afraid of hard work, something she was grateful to see. The shelter would have taken her ages to put together―her ribs still ached, even after she applied more stimpaks to the area―and with only two settlers in the place, they would be extremely vulnerable to attack.

Fixing his armor like he was, was also impossible for her to do. She could see his arm muscles working, as he brought down the hammer. Jeanne suddenly felt curious; she'd seen him without his armor on multiple occasions―he'd never slept inside the frame, of course―but she'd never actually... paid much attention to him.

Watching the ripple of the muscles under his jumpsuit made her even more nervous than before. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _Dieu,_ it would only get worse, if she didn't keep ignoring―

But the feeling in her chest would not stay away, no matter what she tried. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her eyes on the man―the synth―and wondered. Why did she suddenly have these feelings? It didn't make sense. They'd traveled together before the Island, she'd traveled with him to the Glowing Sea to collect the bombs for Liberty Prime, but― _now_ it was suddenly ten times more difficult?

Maybe it _was_ the Fog. Danse had reacted to her exhaustion and nervous breakdown on the steps of Acadia, much as he would have outside of the Island. But she―she shouldn't have have lost her composure to begin with―

Jeanne took another deep breath. It was the _Island,_ not the Fog. Everything here reminded her of her mother, of her life before Nate took her away, of feeling like she was being molded into a shape she wasn't flexible enough to fit. If her life had been different, would she have been the same Jeanne?

She wondered, for the first time since she was a little girl, why her birth mother had given her up for adoption. She knew that Jean and Marguerite Pinsonneault adopted her at birth, but they'd never talked about her "real" mother, much less admitted to her that she was adopted―a rueful laugh in her throat bubbled up. Asian girl in a white family; it wasn't hard to figure that one out.

But what _would_ her life have been like, if she'd―?

Jeanne shoved the thoughts aside and sighed to herself. As much as it hurt, as terrible as things had been between her and Francis... as awful as it had been to lose Jack and, later, her father... as relieving as it had been to be cut free from her mother's control, she couldn't have changed anything. Imagining otherwise was an insult to herself.

 _An idle mind is a dangerous thing,_ she thought. She shouldn't dwell on these things. She should be focusing on moving forward, making things better in the here and now. Jeanne snapped back to the present, and looked at Danse.

"How'd you do that, anyway?" she asked, gesturing to the armor piece.

Danse laid his hammer down onto the "anvil" and leaned onto his palms, staring at the piece of leg armor in front of him. She could see his back muscles tensing up, his jaw working slightly as he looked straight ahead.

He was quiet when he spoke. "Fell from a roof." His fingers curled up into fists on the "anvil".

Jeanne blinked in surprise. He sounded... he _was_ angry, again. Like he had in the bar. She felt uneasy, remembering how that situation had ended. "The roof of the hotel?" she asked, partly curious and partly to assess this new development.

"Yes," Danse answered, curtly. He leaned backward and picked up the hammer again, bracing the leg piece against the stone. Jeanne's eyes watered with the next strike, loudly echoing across the settlement and ringing in her ears. He discarded the hammer and moved to the frame, crouching down to apply the piece.

Her stomach bubbled with anxiety. Never mind that she didn't like that Danse was angry―she still had that awful feeling trapped inside of her, the nervousness that came from―Jeanne looked away for a moment, trying to will her face to behave yet again.

"Is it fixed?" she asked, measuring out her voice carefully.

"Yes," Danse repeated. His voice was strained, even in the one word.

Jeanne was quiet for a time. Couldn't turn back to him. Her heart started the fateful hammering again, refusing to settle inside her chest. She stared out into the Fog, watching vague shapes coalescing into being and disappearing just as quickly.

"Danse?" she asked, suddenly. "Are you―"

He stood, abruptly, moving around to the back of the armor and opening it. Without a word he stepped into the X-01 and applied his helmet, then located his rifle and looked it over.

She snapped her mouth shut. This wasn't like the last time, she thought. The last time he was more willing to speak to her. It felt like he was deliberately trying to ignore her, now.

She couldn't fathom _why._ Other than her... distracting feelings, she'd put on the same attitude as she usually had.

...Maybe that was it. Maybe Danse was angry because of the truce. Maybe he felt like she wasn't living up to his standard, or even the Brotherhood's standard of behavior. He'd had time to think about what she meant―and he didn't like it.

Jeanne stared across the farm and thought hard. But if that were the case he would have mentioned it, wouldn't he? Danse was like ripping off duct tape, in that regard. He didn't mince words when it came time to provoke a response. He was blunt and honest.

Maybe he'd had time to think about the other part of the conversation. About the Velveteen Rabbit, when he became Real. Danse being a synth, but acting like a human being... maybe he thought that meant he would have to live with the synths in Acadia. They didn't hide, and neither did he. DiMA had taken them in and made them Real, in his own way.

Jeanne's head hurt. She watched as Danse took several steps across the shelter's uneven floor then turned and raised his rifle, sighting in a vague point somewhere in the distance. "Good," he murmured, briefly. He turned to her, lowering the rifle. "I am ready when you are, Johnson."

Jeanne shivered slightly. Nightfall was coming. The jumpsuit she wore was not insulated very well. She'd made do for months, but now it had a gaping hole in the side that needed repairing. And... she didn't want to be out in the dark, alone with him, again.

A quick, extremely painful, wrench in her chest struck her at the thought. They would need to go out into the Island again. But―she felt the lingering pain―maybe she would be able to control it better, if they took a break and stayed in the settlement. Maybe she could reduce the stress, and everything would go back to normal, if she waited for the provisioner and made sure the farm was handled.

Danse was facing her, his rifle in his hands and cutting an impressive figure in his lightly dented power armor, the light on his helmet trained directly on her and singling her out in the coming darkness. Her thoughts strayed back onto a more pleasant track, recalling when she'd first met Danse at the police station.

How relieved she had been when she ran across the Brotherhood, and knew they possessed the force of will to stay alive. She was, of course, sympathetic to Gladius for losing so many men, but even after meeting Maxson she'd felt the Brotherhood was the best bet for finding Shaun.

She hadn't known exactly how difficult that would be, in the end. She _was_ glad to have chosen to join the Brotherhood. _And_ to have met Danse.

But... she frowned to herself. Brotherhood soldiers controlled themselves well, following Maxson's orders with military precision. Was that any different from her past? She didn't like that thought; to imagine that she had joined because she lacked the necessary control from her childhood, that she needed the comfort of the strict rules that she'd fought against―

She was lying to herself, now. She'd always followed those rules, even after her mother died. The only time she'd tried to get away was when Nate offered, and even then she'd carried on the pretense that everything was alright. Through their fighting, through her trouble with the Institute, through everything...

Up until now. Now the rules were harder to follow than they ever _had_ been. Jeanne looked at her feet and felt blood filling her face. Harder to follow because―

"Johnson?" Danse asked, interrupting her thoughts. He still sounded angry.

She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. "I think we should take tonight as a chance to recuperate," she said, her voice betraying her nerves. "I mean..."

"If you feel the need to rest, then we should," Danse replied. His tone suddenly changed, back to the normal gentle firmness she was so used to. She fought the urge to shiver again. Almost wished he would stay angry― _Cela n'a fait qu'amplifier les flammes._ Jeanne's throat tightened with emotion.

"I'll see if I can find some sleeping bags," she muttered, turning sharply and striding away.

* * *

Danse watched Johnson moving away across the boards, and breathed a sigh of relief. It'd taken everything he had to keep himself straight with her standing there. And he'd been a lot rougher than he'd intended, in dealing with her questions.

The look on her face when he'd interrupted her... that would stay with him for a long time. She'd looked surprised― _hurt,_ even―

He turned his eyes down to his rifle and stared at the energy cell pack, feeling the skin on the back of his head tightening. Johnson might have known how to defuse him, once, but she was clearly not able to summon that strength after having been shot and in surgery. He was a fool for thinking anger would help him push away the feeling in his head.

When she'd implied that she needed time to heal, he'd given up trying to fight. He couldn't deny the twisting of his stomach, nor what he was experiencing. Man made his heart. Man had given him the ability to love, and he cursed that man now. It was only more proof that he, a monstrous creation, ought to have been destroyed as Maxson ordered.

What could he do beyond stay silent on the matter? Johnson was, absolutely, a friend. He didn't dare to dream of changing that status, not even for his own selfish feelings. It would jeopardize the mission, possibly even cause her to dismiss him back to the Commonwealth and leave her alone in the Fog.

She reminded him of Cutler in the right ways. She was―just as Cutler had been―only a _person,_ with flaws and faults the same as any other. Weak in some ways, strong in others.

He was meant to act the same. But his flaws were the product of an ill design, a creation of science meant to infiltrate and cause _only_ harm. No matter what he thought, no matter what Johnson thought―her continued belief that he was not the same as the synths that terrorized the wasteland―he couldn't forget what he was.

And he certainly couldn't let himself fall in love with her.

The pain in his stomach intensified. Thinking the idea, even, brought him pain. He... he didn't know if he should trust himself. If he _could._ Johnson was lying to herself, about her true feelings toward the Island, about her breakdown, and she seemingly intended to continue doing so. He'd made the caveat during the truce because he knew it might be needed; her inability to maintain composure when facing down DiMA, something even she admitted, might call for him to bolster her once more.

But this? This was not what he'd meant the caveat for. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to will away the uneasiness in his stomach. He didn't want to lie to himself, like Johnson was. He was a terrible liar.

It appeared to be the only outcome that would not _damn_ him, however. Danse was grateful that he was wearing his helmet. The look on his face must be murderous, thinking about that. What she'd said about hope... he had to admit his was not easy to find. He would let it stay hidden. It was easier than searching for, and finding, and realizing as he likely would, that he wanted to be in love with her. Easier to believe it impossible.

Only a friend. Danse turned himself to face the opening of the shelter and watched the two settlers dragging cloth material onto the boards, followed by Johnson. She was hauling a part of a wall, haphazard boards nailed together hastily, her arms straining from the weight and face contorted in pain. Breaths blew from her pursed mouth, knocking her hair about her face and making her look a mess.

Danse's heart thumped weakly against his ribs, as he moved to aid her with the burden. He held it in place as she secured it to the corner, muttering something about a privacy screen. He ignored his own inner commentary, merely helping and not uttering a word.

Once the wall was in place, Johnson disappeared behind it. The settlers were sewing together bedding, preparing for the night that had almost completely fallen. Danse kept his eyes on the distance, watching the Fog condenser pulling in the unearthly mist. But for those things, they would be set upon immediately. He was glad that DiMA had been able to help the people of the Harbor with that, at the least.

But it was entirely too quiet. He could have sworn his thoughts were being broadcast through the thick ocean air. And his stomach would not settle, no matter how much he tried to quell the feeling.

 _Get it together._ The otherworldly aspect of the land beyond of the Fog condensers was enough to make his skin crawl, sometimes. He'd never been a paranoid person, but if he were to remain on this damnable Island he could imagine becoming so; even when the sun peeked through the clouds it felt like he'd stepped into some vile sort of fairy tale.

Johnson emerged from behind the wall in a change of clothing. She looked uncomfortable, fiddling with the sleeves and adjusting the collar of the green Pre-War dress, finally smoothing out her skirt and moving across the boards toward the settlers.

His breath caught in his throat. _"I don't really think green is my color,"_ she'd said, when she'd stepped into the Vim! armor.

...She was _wrong._

"Do we have enough?" she asked the men, folding her legs underneath her and placing her hands in her lap.

He could imagine her, too. Sitting on his bunk in the Prydwen, patiently waiting for his return and smiling that genuine smile he'd seen before, as he returned from fighting the abominations of the wastes―

 _Get it together, man!_ he yelled at himself, inside his mind. Johnson talked with the settlers and took over for one of them when needed, calmly sewing together material to make a sleeping bag. Her stitches were precise, neat, and close together. He expected that much from her, so much as she had been in control.

Danse moved away from the shelter and down toward the water, watching the boundary of the settlement where the condensers drew away the Fog. His helmet light illuminated the masses of seaweed and ruined tires lining the coast, the ocean spraying up into the air as it broke on the shore.

He was glad she had suggested remaining in the settlement. He did not think he could handle being alone with her, in the Fog. Not now, not with his heart beating so fast that he felt like it might fly out of him.

As he watched the coast, trying to focus himself on defense, he could hear the quiet voices of the settlers and Johnson floating over the air. She was making jokes with them. Being friendly. Even through her breakdowns, she was able to present herself as a sympathetic creature. Unlike...

Danse clamped his teeth down on his tongue and held it firmly in place, feeling the pain. Unlike him. Why could man have not programmed him to understand how to control his attitude, instead of making him the soldier he had become? Now that he looked back over the past, and over Johnson's comments, he knew that he'd always been meant to be as he was. To act intolerant, to―

He nipped the thought in the bud. He did not wish to imagine that he was deliberately placed so that he could infiltrate the Brotherhood. No matter what, he was no longer Brotherhood of Steel, and he would never allow himself to betray them.

Betraying Maxson would hurt, but should he betray Johnson―

Danse took a deep breath and felt his chest was constricted.

He _couldn't._


	16. memory:magic

Note: Still around! I might have fixed the issues stopping me. Cross your fingers for me. Also, I've made minor edits to a few chapters prior to this one. Hopefully things flow better, now.

* * *

Gray waves overtook the rocks along the shore, catching in tide pools. The sky nearly matched the ocean, white-tipped clouds with fat bellies full of rain and thunder casually skating across the blue that had dominated earlier that morning. A slim thread of lightning had been seen in the distance, but the storm was nowhere near close enough to threaten the two children who were enjoying the breeze.

Jeanne was sitting on the rocks and shrieking as the eddies washed up over her legs, coating her in salt water. Jack was diving, further out, looking for shells. She watched him carefully, her skin shivering every time he went under. "Jack!" she yelled, anxiously.

He burst up out of the water and stared up at her, grinning like only he could. Jeanne bit her lip, tears threatening her eyes. _"Stop,"_ she moaned. "It's too scary."

Jack shrugged easily, swimming toward her through the swirling water and depositing a shell beside her on the rock. He splashed her excitedly before moving back out toward the drop-off.

Jeanne watched him until her lip began to ache from being bitten. Behind her she could hear the gloomy jets of Miss Nou, her nanny floating about the edge of the rocks and chastising her in her mother's voice about the dangers of the ocean. "Five thousand two hundred and ninety-nine people died of accidental drowning last year," Miss Nou droned.

Jeanne closed her eyes quickly, her head tilting down as she whimpered, trying not to imagine the thought. She kept her teeth tight on her lip until she could taste blood, starling her. The water lapped at her legs again, shockingly cold, as a thunderclap rang out much closer to the shore.

She couldn't hear Jack splashing, anymore. Jeanne's head snapped up, her eyes popping and searching over the waves. Her throat suddenly constricted, fear leaping her heart into it―Jack was nowhere in sight―

"Over half of the number of deaths consisted of children aged one through ten years of age―" Miss Nou spouted, her voice pleasant and unnerving.

Jeanne scrambled into a stand, yelling out Jack's name. Her feet were bare on the slippery rocks, skating over the smoothness with each step as she paced back and forth. _"Jack!"_ she screamed, the tears finally spilling out over her cheeks―

Her ankle must have taken a sharp turn, because the next thing she knew she was off the rock and floundering in the water. She tried to stay above the surface, coughing up seawater, hands flailing at the smooth rock and slipping away. Jeanne inhaled deeply, taking in lung-fulls of water, and began to sink―

* * *

Jeanne sat up, struggling against the suffocating feeling. She felt the panic settling into her brain―she was _drowning!_ She was―

The sudden eruption from sleep and the haze of the Fog disoriented her, her eyes fighting to focus in the dim light. Her heart wanted to burst into a thousand frantic beats, but her senses told her―

She realized, embarrassingly late, that she was still inside her sleeping bag. She'd forgotten where she was. Her face burned. At least no one was there to see. She calmed down, unzipping the side and shooting a furtive glance around the small lean-to.

The settlers must have gone to tend the small crop of corn, Danse was probably out walking the edges of the settlement, and here she was sleeping in. She'd broken years upon years of ingrained habit. Her cheeks flushed even more.

But the nightmare... she rubbed her side through the dress, feeling the soft pang of pain. She'd probably needed the extra sleep, even if she'd awoken so rudely. Jeanne curled her legs underneath her, grabbing her shoes, and pushed herself up into a stand. She _was_ feeling much better than she had, the night before. She rubbed her face quickly, wiping the remaining sleep from her eyes, and looked out over what she could see of the settlement.

As her heartbeat returned to normal, she noticed the sun actually making an effort to poke through the Fog. A faint yellow light outlined the shadowy figures of the settlers tending crops nearby. Tree branches cut impressively sharp shapes through a flattering blanket of damp mist. On the rocks further along the coast, she could just barely make out the figure of Danse. His armor was much quieter now that he'd repaired it, but still unique to her ears.

It all seemed... unworldly and ancient. Golden-tinted fog billowed about the condensers at the treeline, swirling into the vague shapes she'd seen before. She watched it for a moment, willing herself to fully wake. _Amazing,_ she thought. She didn't remember the Island being quite so...

 _Magical._

"You should put them shoes on," a voice said, from the left of the lean-to, startling her. Jeanne jumped and dropped the heels, her other hand going to her shoulder where her rifle should have been―if she hadn't just woken up and neglected to grab it. She stared at the corner of the wall, watching the heavy figure of Old Longfellow rounding it. She relaxed slightly, lowering her hand from her collarbone and to her side.

"Don't know why you'd wear somethin' so ridiculous," he added, watching her with calm eyes and a smirk tugging at his mouth. "No Islander ever would."

"It's... temporary," Jeanne said. She'd bitten her cheek, when he spoke, and the taste of the blood sharpened her senses, waking her fully. "Hello, Longfellow. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Old Longfellow eyed her up, his face falling into the stubborn neutral look he'd held at the bar. "I didn't see you leavin' the Harbor. Figured I ought to make sure the metal man got your hurt settled, at least. Never did trust doctors much."

Jeanne felt her face tugging back up into a smile, despite the hurt in her cheek. She didn't fight it, ignored the pain. "Thank you. For the rescue."

"Damned lucky, you were," he said, shifting his weight. "Was out huntin'. Don't go thinkin' I walked through the Fog just for you."

She ignored his rudeness. "I wouldn't," she replied, in a chipper voice. "But I do appreciate the help. How can I pay you back?"

Longfellow made a strange sucking noise with his mouth, looking sharply into the Fog, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I've got my gun, my drink an' my wits. That's all I've ever needed."

He was quiet, then. Jeanne reached down, picking up her heels and sliding them onto her feet. As she righted herself, she patted down her dress and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It felt like there was an unspoken sentence in the old man's voice, something he wanted to ask yet pride or stubbornness refused to allow him.

It was always better to have the last say in a conversation. By continuing to talk, the conversation never stopped. Jeanne grimaced, inside. Her mother's lessons. She'd made use of them, despite the awkward sick-feeling they evoked in her stomach.

She moved as close as felt comfortable to the old man, noticing that he wasn't much taller than she was. "I made it to the observatory," she mentioned to him, pushing down the feeling. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.

Old Longfellow grunted noncommittally. "That so," he mumbled.

"Acadia is a very interesting place," Jeanne added. "Not quite what I remember."

Longfellow turned his gaze back to her, his eyebrow twitching up by a fraction of an inch. "How do you reckon?" he asked, failing to mask his curiosity.

Jeanne curled a finger around her collar and tugged it to the side, adjusting the itchy fabric. "I wasn't able to look around nearly as much as I ought to have," she answered, rubbing her neck gingerly. "It's a shame, though. When I was a child, people could look through the telescopes and see so many stars..."

"Doesn't much matter, now, does it?" he replied, grumpily. "No one cares, no more. Not like you could see 'em through the Fog, anyhow."

"No," she agreed, looking up at the cloud cover. The sun had given up trying to penetrate the Fog, graciously retreating and leaving the coastline damp and darkened once again.

She'd begun to think that she would never see the stars, ever again. The gloominess of the Island was damning, poetically so. Coupled with the gentle crashing of the waves on the coast of the settlement and the downhearted feeling in the air... it was _some_ kind of magical, surely.

Jeanne tilted her head and glanced at Longfellow. She cleared her throat and quietly quoted:

 _"For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams_  
 _Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_  
 _And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes_  
 _Of the beautiful Annabel Lee._  
 _And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_  
 _Of my darling—my darling―my life and my bride,_  
 _In her sepulchre there by the sea―_  
 _In her tomb by the sounding sea."_

She felt the flush in her face, at the emotion she'd put into the poem. The Island must be getting to her, again―her skin was almost crawling under her hair, tightening in tension and anxiety. Jeanne breathed in and out, calmly, trying to dispel the discomfort.

Longfellow nodded, slowly. "Mm-hmm," he agreed, his eyes out on the water. His eyes clouded, looking into the Fog beyond the shore. She watched him, feeling a slight tug of empathy.

Longfellow was an old man. She was sure his life had been rough, living on the Island. There were volumes in his far-away gaze, books that would never be written, poems never spoken. She was suddenly barraged with thoughts about her father―

Her father had become bitter, toward the end of his life. Everything that had befell him, from Jack's death to Jeanne's departure and disowning; Francis' bad investments to her mother's untimely death...

Regret rocketed through her. It'd broken her father. Jeanne'd heard the sadness in his voice just as she heard it now, in Longfellow's.

The way he stared out across the water... maybe he was regretting, too. Maybe he was lost in his own troubles as much as she was, trying to forget the past and failing. The realization registered in her mind. Longfellow drank like she used the forever-smile. To... get away. To ignore the pain.

She felt lowly for being so short with him, at the bar. This man who had more than enough trouble on his mind had not only saved her life but made the effort to check up on her, after. She'd misjudged him terribly.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, abruptly. "I know I am."

Longfellow roused from his far-away look and gave her an appreciative look. "What d'ya have?"

* * *

Johnson had set up a small eating area, just inside the lean-to. Danse watched her inviting the settlers in, squaring her shoulders with a smile and passing out plates of food. One more wastelander had joined them that morning, before she woke. He'd not had the heart to disturb her sound sleep. Letting her catch up on what she'd missed in the last few days seemed the more appropriate action.

Danse turned himself back out to the wastes, staring into the Fog. Guard duty, as boring as it might be, was still important. His sense of duty outweighed the desire to check on her. To say good morning, to ask how she was doing, to...

He sighed, letting his shoulders slouch as much as they possibly would inside of the armor. He'd pushed his feelings down as far as he could, burying them under the negative behaviors that she was capable of. Even remembering how inconsistent Johnson was, he still felt the overwhelming ache in his chest.

Couldn't ignore the pain. But the pain was―gratefully―not a true physical pain, and he was well able to withstand it.

No matter how much it might hurt. Danse dared a glance back at the lean-to, watching Jeanne handing out what appeared to be cooked Mirelurk meat. The old guide―who had shown his face about a half-hour before, without any indication of what he wanted―was sitting to her left. Jeanne sat cross-legged on the planks with her skirt neatly tucked under her, maintaining a smile and talking with the settlers.

Danse's glance turned into a stare, as Longfellow began to talk. Jeanne watched him with a bowl of noodles in her hand, fork resting against the side, her eyes stuck to his face. He punctuated each sentence with a messy bite of meat, chewing slowly and thoroughly before continuing. The look on her face, a mixture of curiosity and the bland pleasantry she was so good at...

When he'd first met her at Cambridge, she'd given him the same look. Danse watched her now, a strange feeling brewing in his gut. He wondered if she'd had the same reaction to her other companions―the synth detective and the reporter―when she'd first met them.

He wondered if she instinctively knew when someone was going to be useful. Danse had caught Valentine being snarky about her attitude, many a time. Johnson ignored that Nick was saying such things, and simply powered through the situation like she always had. She spoke highly of him, regardless; probably because he _was_ useful, no matter his impudence.

Valentine had helped her find a way inside the Institute, and find her son. Johnson hadn't talked much about Shaun, since then. Danse didn't know why.

He wondered what she thought about _him,_ now. The thought was both tempting and intimidating. If she didn't think highly of him, she wouldn't have talked Maxson out of executing him―but she'd been as inconsistent with him as ever, on the Island. Asked for the truce, setting their relationship back two steps and one forward.

She'd said she would rather go down with him, than any other. But she continued to speak about blackmail and had used that against him to obtain a ransom of emotional restraint.

She'd been keeping notes on him. Whatever her reason, he didn't know that he liked that. Briefly, he wished he'd looked at them when she was injured... but his respect for privacy was too great to let that thought linger. His mind shunted off the notes onto a softer thought.

...Her breath caught when she talked to him, sometimes. She looked away from him quickly, almost as if she were attempting to be coy. She'd put her hands behind her back and stared up at him inside the clinic of the Harbor, dark eyes glimmering up at him through fine black hair, her mouth curled up into a trusting smile―

Danse moved, swiftly, as if the motion of stomping through the Fog at the edge of the farm would shake loose the temptation to lose himself in a fantasy. When he finally dared to look to the lean-to again, Johnson was preparing another plate of food and the old guide was leaning on a derelict box covered in netting. He was speaking with her more casually, gesturing occasionally at the ocean. Johnson flashed him a cheerful smile and nodded, animatedly.

If his instincts were correct, it appeared that Johnson was going to ask Longfellow to jioin her travels on the Island. She extended little more than cursory politeness to those who she would not see again, or felt undeserving of more; she'd fed the old man and he now appeared relaxed, which indicated she'd invited him to stay for a time.

Danse wasn't sure what to feel, about the matter. Partly, he was relieved. If she went into the Fog with Longfellow, _he_ wouldn't have to... have to fight himself to maintain composure.

The other part of him was suddenly experiencing a rush of worry. The strangeness of the feeling―it was not like ordinary concern for a fellow soldier, which to him meant silently acknowledging that they might run into trouble but being confident that they could handle the situation should it arise.

No, this was more than that. The knot in his stomach was approaching Gordian proportions, winding itself so tightly that he feared even the sharpest sword might not pierce it.

Danse tried to cleanse his mind, but one loose tendril immediately placed itself front and center.

Johnson dancing through the ghouls with her sword out, her feet gliding like she was water over stone. Her eye half-closed, the resulting scar matching his neatly―

"Danse," Johnson said, from his side. He fought the jarring sensation of being caught off-guard bravely, refusing to allow her to see his embarrassment.

She smiled at him, offering up a plate. "Brought you some food," she added. "I'll take watch, if you want to eat?"

He let his eyes pass across her face before dropping them to the plate and nodding, forcing himself to take the food. "Thank you," he replied.

Johnson slipped her rifle from her back and wiped a bit of moisture from the scope with her skirt, then hoisted the weapon, stalking off into the swirling mist. Danse's throat and mouth had gone dry, again. He swallowed desperately, watching her skirt swinging around her legs as she was nearly consumed by the Fog. His hand shook on the plate, stopped only by an abrupt turn away from the condensers.

He doubted he could lie to himself, now. This was a powerful feeling, a foreign feeling. Like the grief that he'd felt when Cutler died, he could only wallow in the misery it brought. When he'd bled himself of the want, of the―when he was able to control himself better, he could move past.

But right now... Danse could barely see Johnson as she stalked through the Fog, silently.

Right now, he was damned if he knew how he _would._


	17. memory:je t'aime

Note: I realize it's been over a year since I updated this. I'm sorry. I hope I'm getting better.

* * *

"Looks like the Fog's gettin' to you," Longfellow said, still leaning against the box.

Danse frowned, unsure what the old man meant by his accusation. He shifted his weight, settling himself into a more comfortable position on the boards of the make-do shelter, ignoring him.

"Wouldn't be the first, you know," Longfellow continued, his voice contemplative. "Even the strongest of men get their noggins scrambled out here."

Danse tuned out the words, staring at the food on his plate and wondering to himself how long Johnson had been holding onto it. Not that he was concerned, necessarily, but there had been times when her scavenging was untrustworthy.

"I been through the seasons, this one's no worse than the last." Longfellow's gaze moved along the shore and the breakers that were washing over the rocks with white tips. There was a storm brewing, again; uneven spatters of rain came down over them, dampening clothing and spirits.

"But even I know that the Fog ain't affectin' people so bad as it does synths," the old man mused, looking back to Danse.

His eyes met the guide's in a sharp glance, his frown deepening. Longfellow stared back at him, levelly, a neutral expression on his face.

"I got no trouble with 'em." Longfellow moved his scrutiny back to the shore. "Just so's you know. Might want to make a note, is all."

Danse swallowed the remainder of food in his mouth, utensil poised over the edge of the plate and hand shaking slightly. His mind was blank, for a time. Didn't know what to make of the statement, nor the warning.

"Always figured that was why DiMA put them things up," Longfellow murmured, a hand gesturing at the Fog condensers. The opaque mist swirled about them, the sound of a whirring fan faint through the noise of the settlers as they went about their business. "Keep himself sane, maybe."

The words eventually connected to others inside Danse's head, and the path they made opened up a marketplace of concern and ideas. He did not know whether Old Longfellow was stating he knew Danse was a synth, but the implication certainly held.

But that was of lesser concern than the statement's meaning: That synths were affected more strongly by the Fog's mind-altering effect. Such a thing shouldn't be possible, shouldn't it? Synths were―

Almost entirely human, but for the neurological implant inside their brains.

Were... his thoughts, every agonizing moment he had expressed his feelings toward Johnson, were they being influenced by the Fog itself? Was that why he held such feeling? And why he found it so hard to fight the temptation of fantasy inside his head?

...Was that why his heart hurt? The revelation that he wasn't in control. It was an adequate explanation for his unsuitable behavior, a perfect excuse to will away what he'd expected was stress-induced social infractions. _Yet―_

Somehow, he felt relief washing over him. There was an explanation. It would be shameful to use the concept as an excuse to give into his untoward behavior but he could at least reason with himself better, now. Understand that his wanting to love Johnson was not his own design but some disturbing byproduct of his existence, exacerbated by the Fog.

Castigating himself for that behavior felt more appropriate than ever. How could he have known? This place was maddening, in its foreignness, from the alien beauty it possessed to the dangers that lurked within its crevices.

He should have been prepared for such a possibility. Should have made a more determined effort to scout the danger ahead of their entry into the Island itself. Knowledge was freely available from the people of the Harbor, presumably. Johnson had stuck fast to the idea that her own wavering emotion wasn't due to the Fog, but if she'd just been lying―as _always―_

Danse dropped his utensil onto the plate, staring at the shapeless mess. "Have you discussed this with Johnson?" he asked, willing his voice into control.

"I did," came the reply. Longfellow shrugged a shoulder at him. "Seemed more than relieved at it."

Then she would expect his behavior was all a reaction to the Fog. As much as he'd bothered her with his ultimatums, all the progress he'd made in attempting to―

Danse's teeth snapped together in his mouth, his jaw working. Did that even matter, anymore? Perhaps his vexation of the woman was also brought on by the Fog. Would he have said such things, before? They had traveled through the irradiated wasteland, none so much as the Glowing Sea, and nothing came of his sponsorship other than a minor scuffle relating to the Children of Atom.

Even she explained that away as a presumption of violence. Something a Brotherhood Paladin should expect of all persons but for his own people. The unsecured wastes were not, by any means, a pleasant place.

But if all their discussion had been for naught, what did that mean of their relationship? Were they truly... alright, as had been discussed to death between them?

Danse placed the plate to the side, his stomach no longer wanting. He stood, moving from the shelter, and walked up the slight hill to the rocks at the top. The air was thick with rain, now, running over his scalp and into his eyes.

Danse stared unblinkingly over the churning water, his mind awash with a storm of its own right.

* * *

"So what about the Children of Atom?" Jeanne asked Longfellow, the old man keeping pace with her as she continued her patrol around the edge of the settlement. "How do they deal with the Fog?"

"I 'spect they spend too much time in their hidey-hole to worry much," Longfellow replied, his boots making wet noises as they tromped through the rain-soaked leaf litter.

She wiped her face of rain, wishing she'd put her hair up before the storm began. For want of a hat, she could barely see through the rain streaming down her bangs. "Just seems odd, is all," she murmured. "All those Trappers out there, roaming about... the Fog got to them, right?"

"Maybe not all of 'em," the guide replied. He coughed, spitting into the bushes. "Some men just ain't _right."_

Jeanne agreed. Of course, that was how she'd always felt about the Children of Atom. She admitted to herself that her dislike of organized religion―brought on by her mother's behavior, of course―negatively tinged her opinion.

That, and the Children were always so aggressive towards others. It was a wonder anyone ever joined their group, the way they treated outsiders.

She shifted her mind back to what Longfellow had said before. That synths were more easily affected by the Fog. She and Danse had been traipsing about the Island for several days, and his behavior only got more and more confusing to her.

Her own _idées fixes_ , she still accepted were caused by coming home. Meeting Miss Nou, Francis, seeing the hotel... it was inevitable. As soon as she fully accepted that, she could move on.

She wondered if the old house had been cleared away, after the fire. Not that she would ever want to seek it out―

Would she? After their mission was completed, even? Jeanne felt relieved that whatever was stressing out Danse was easily explained away, leaving her to focus more on their goal. Get Kasumi, get her home. The whole idea actually put things into neat order, as to why DiMA acted so weirdly and the synths at the observatory were so willing to convince the girl she might be a synth herself.

Maxson was right about them being abomin―

Jeanne stopped in mid step, her foot dropping jarringly as she halted. _No,_ she told herself. That sort of thinking wouldn't help her at all. Much as she had espoused the belief that synths were a danger to ordinary people, before she knew Danse was one―she couldn't continue to think that.

Even if she wanted to, she couldn't believe the ex-Paladin meant anyone harm. Well, anyone who was decent, anyway. He might be rigid and not accepting of some, but he wouldn't actively hurt someone who only meant to live their lives as well they could. Raiders, ferals, and super mutants were straight out, by that definition.

"Somethin' the matter?" Old Longfellow asked her, turning back to give her a thoughtful look.

"No," she said, shooting him a smile. "Just thinking about... _well,_ everything."

"Too much thinkin', might get you killed. Got to keep your eyes open." Longfellow motioned off into the distance, past the Fog condensers.

Jeanne's gaze moved out into the eddies of mist, seeing the faint shambling movement through the rain. Several shadows, moving along the pathway toward the settlement. She raised her rifle, staring down the sights.

The provisioner was just as surprised as she was, to see them. Jeanne dropped her weapon, smiling widely. _Dieu soit loué_ , the supplies had finally arrived.

* * *

Danse was up on the rocky outcropping, when construction began. Longfellow wasn't much help either, mostly milling around and grumbling under his breath about how a man's home wasn't so much a castle anymore. Jeanne ignored him, sifting through the contents of the shipment.

She thumped a bottle of whiskey onto a box and glanced at Longfellow, then turned to the mess of papers the provisioner had brought. Several new issues of Publick Occurences had been included. She tossed the papers to the side, annoyed. Piper's meandering thoughts would only aggravate her, right now.

When she looked back the whiskey was gone along with the old man, as she'd expected. Her eyes sought out Danse, seeing him sitting in the rain, legs hanging from the edge of the rocks.

Really could use his help, but given what she'd learned... Jeanne debated for a moment, clearing rain from her face again. A crack of thunder booming across the sky made the decision for her in an instant. They needed shelter, and they needed it fast.

"Danse!" she yelled, through the wind. It whipped up stronger than before, her skirt slapping wetly up onto her thighs. She shivered, partly in embarrassment, peeling the grungy fabric back into place.

Almost reluctantly, he pried himself from the rocks and moved down into the settlement. Jeanne was slapping boards together, makeshift nails stuck in her mouth and hair askew, when he reached the temporary shelter. She glanced up at him, and dropped the nails in surprise.

Danse had an incredibly expressive face on a good day, and at this moment he looked downright pathetic. She gaped at him for a second before composing herself, and frowning up at him. "Danse?" she asked, cautiously. "You... _alright?"_

"I believed I was," he said, sounding tired.

Oh, _merde._ Jeanne picked up the nails, slowly, her stomach boiling inside her at the implication. "Time enough to talk once we've gotten this place together, right?" she asked, her voice strained.

"I doubt talking will help," he said, flatly, before moving off to work on the building.

Jeanne watched him moving away, replacing the nails in her mouth and wondering. Longfellow must have spoken to him, too. Told him about the Fog.

Wasn't that ironic as all get-out? Here she was, feeling mollified by the thought, and he'd gone the opposite direction. Just like _before,_ when she'd been worked up by her memories, and he'd been the one in control.

The back and forth they were experiencing was nothing but trouble. Jeanne moved her jaw, twirling the nails in her mouth. They would get nowhere, and fast, if they didn't―

She sighed through her nose, placing down a nail and hammering it in. She didn't know what to do. Never had with Nate, either.

He hand slipped, smashing her in the thumb. Jeanne swore, spitting nails and dropping the hammer, shaking her hand before jamming the digit into her mouth. She looked up at the sky, hearing another crack of thunder, before dropping her eyes to meet a much more pained stare.

She removed her thumb from her mouth, looking down quickly. _Quand même_... something had to be done.

* * *

It took less than an hour to build what passed as a double-room home. In that time, she'd mulled over as much as she could in her mind, going over and again the thoughts that she'd had. What Danse himself had said, about his memories and how he'd lost his connection to one of the people he considered a friend.

Her mind cast back to Codsworth, to Nate's angry comments. He'd been right that after buying the robot, they were left with time to talk. Time to make things right. Before the declaration of world-wide devastation and their mad dash to the Vault, the situation was almost back to normal.

Well, as normal as it could be, with Shaun around. Nate threw himself into the little things he could do; fixing the mobile on the crib, reading books to him, even giving him small baths. Jeanne had looked for and found a job, bringing in money that they desperately needed. Her being away from the stress of the house―and Nate willingly taking on duties of househusband―seemed to help.

She'd come to the decision that Danse needed something to anchor him. He'd lost his Brotherhood status, all the family he'd had, and replaced it with―well, her. She wasn't exactly the best family to have. If she was family, at all.

So she put her mind to thinking about that, how to settle the former Paladin's mind. Her first thought had been that perhaps he ought to speak to the synths at Acadia, because they had all been through the same rough experience. She tossed the thought almost as soon as it came across her mind. It would necessarily lead to his leaving her side, and she still didn't want to be left alone on the Island.

Not even with Longfellow for company. The amount of alcohol he'd consumed was staggering, since he arrived in the settlement. The man must have a cast-iron liver.

Her only other option―and she admitted to herself that she was being selfish, not leaving the Acadian option on the table―was to confess the truth to Danse. To tell him how she―

...To tell him she was falling in love with him. Impossibly so, maybe. She had trouble even confessing that to herself, though she'd had plenty of time to realize it was happening. Her face burned at the thought.

Just like the skin horse said. It wasn't something that happened all at once. It just _became._

That was why she'd never been able to love Nate like she should have. He been everything to her, a protector who gave her everything and she just took and took and couldn't give back. Love couldn't become like it ought to have, when she refused to allow it to do so.

That wasn't what she wanted for Danse. Her eyes searched for him, through the storm still battering the outside of the newly-built house. She'd planned to repair her jumpsuit once the supplies came in, but with more pressing thoughts on her mind...

The settlers were bunkering down, working at their own devices. Jeanne wasn't sure where the crotchety old man had gone off to, but she trusted he knew his own sort best enough to not worry.

She circled the building, staring out into the rain. The thunder still boomed overhead, bringing goosebumps to her skin. It sounded so close. Like the world was ending all over again―

Jeanne sighed to herself, painfully. Maybe it _was,_ for Danse.

He was back on the rocks again, sitting exposed to the elements and shoulders slumped. She picked her way carefully through the scrub, nearly twisting her ankle when an errant gust of wind caught her skirt and mussed it again.

"Danse!" she called, over the wind. "You should come inside!"

He didn't reply; but that was alright, she hadn't expected him to. Jeanne moved up beside him, lowering herself to her knees and grimacing at the feel of the slick moss covering the outcropping.

"Danse?" she asked, staring at him. He still had the horribly sad look on his face, limp hands curled inward between his thighs. Didn't turn his eyes onto her, but opened his mouth to speak.

"I would like to believe that everything I've done is of my own volition," he began, his voice strained.

"Danse, I―" she started, but he interrupted her.

"It's _not."_ He turned his head loosely on his neck, as if holding up the weight of his thoughts was too much. "I have no idea where I stand, now. I have _nothing_ to prove that I am real. That anything I would do is what I want to do."

Jeanne breathed in sharply, her breath caught by the wind whipping into her face. She blinked against the onslaught, rapidly, tears wrenched from her eyes by the bluster.

"I can't tell you what you want to hear," she said, sympathetically. "I don't know what that is. But I can tell you―"

She hesitated. Danse looked away from her again, out into the storm. "You are Real," she said, shakily. "Because―"

 _Bon sang, Jeanne, get it together!_ Her knuckles crunched across the rough rock surface, skinning them. The sharpness of the pain kept her focused. "Because―"

"You can't tip the scale any more than it is, Johnson," he said, his voice sounding so very far away.

That hurt her, but she still had to say it. She still needed to be one hundred percent truthful with him. All the times before, when she'd opened up to him, it had only been her pushing her pain onto him.

"You _are_ Real, Danse," she said, her words almost torn out of her and blown away into the ocean. "Because I love you Really hard.

 _"And that's why it hurts."_


End file.
